It's A Long, Long Way
by Amateur Bacon Cook
Summary: A rogue stick grenade blasts 2nd Lieutenant Ernest Thornhill and Sergeant Bertie Davies far from the Battle of the Somme. It would be a welcome break from the mud, if they could communicate with the locals...
1. A Gift from the Boche

Only five minutes had passed when Ernest Thornhill came round again. He had only passed out because of the pain. The gunfire had stilled for a moment — in their section, at least — but there was the sinister, distant rattle of machine guns either side of them. Thornhill blinked, and grimaced as he felt the throbbing in his wounded leg. "Where are we, men?" he croaked.

A heavyset man with a moustache bent over him. "A Boche trench, sir. I carried you here. There's eight men left, and we've killed all the Germans in here."

"An impressive feat, Sergeant."

"There weren't many, sir. I believe some of them fled, but there were certainly enough to cause trouble."

That was enough for Thornhill. He called what remained of his platoon to him. "We must stick it out and capture the support trench. If I can hobble on with this confounded leg, you are all more than capable. This is the big push, for goodness' sakes." He attempted to stand, but had evidently underestimated the severity of his wound, as he fell back and began to turn a delicate shade of green. "Help me, Sergeant." The aforementioned sergeant, Davies by name, heaved Thornhill to his feet.

As soon as the ten soldiers scrambled out of the trench, the Boche opened vicious fire. A lance-corporal fell, writhing, before they had even walked ten feet. So much for a big push. Sheer providence was the only explanation for how Davies and Thornhill managed to limp across. One German soldier began to throw grenades — one after the other, flying on sticks.

Davies saw it first, hurtling towards the two. Too encumbered to leap aside, yet unwilling to let his platoon commander go, he waited to be blown into unrecognisable bits.

* * *

"O God, my _leg_ —" A rock had torn Thornhill's bandage and scraped his wound, causing it to bleed afresh. Bile rose in his throat as the burning increased in intensity.

"Your leg, sir?"

"It hurts awfully — makes me sick," he explained.

"No wonder, sir, it's open again. You landed on a sharp rock, and the bandage has torn."

"I am perfectly aware, Davies. Ah —" He fumbled for a field dressing inside his tunic, trying to ignore his leg's complaints.

"I'll bandage it for you. You just look out for shells and the like," Davies replied, ever-patient.

Shells. Had the blast of the grenade blown them all the way here, way behind? Fir trees towered behind the two soldiers, rocks littered the ground, and, worst of all — the land didn't feel _French_. "Davies—"

"Yes, sir."

"It's frightfully quiet…"

"I was thinking so myself, sir. Funny, isn't it. You'd think the guns would make an awful row." Davies paused. "Can you get up?"

Thornhill shook his head. He was faintly nauseated; his hands trembled at his sides. _If only I could walk_.

"I'll see if I can't find the line. How queer — that grenade didn't leave a scratch on either of us."

The hapless second lieutenant fell into a fitful sleep, for he was exhausted enough that even the wound in his leg and the jagged pebbles underneath him failed to disturb. Men died again in his dreams, as they are wont to do within the dreams of any soldier once they have served long enough.

* * *

Though Davies searched carefully, there was no sign of the line. All he found was a turbulently flowing river, and wastelands which would be more suited to Norway than anywhere near the Somme. _This isn't France_. _I don't know where but not France_. _The bloody Boche._

Davies was very much used to familiar territory, and familiar people. Before he arrived at the battlefield, he had been training new recruits at Étaples. He had hated it, and he had shown it. The young men called him _Sergeant Davies, the Devil_. Luckily his commander posted him to the line, where he didn't have to bellow orders until they tore his throat open. Just his luck that he disappeared to this awful place.

When Thornhill woke again, his bandage was soaked through. He had no other dressings in his tunic, and the sergeant had used his already. "Use one of your puttees," Davies suggested. "Unless you want to tear up your drawers."

"Puttees it is. Wash 'em, if you please, they're rather muddy."

The rough serge of Thornhill's new bandages irritated his leg, but complaining was useless. There was no alternative, and the sky was turning a dubious purple. "It can't be raining, can it, sergeant?"

"No, sir, the sun's just setting. It's a bit orangey over there, see?"

"Already?" Thornhill glanced at his watch. Half-past one p.m. "It's barely the afternoon—"

"We're nowhere near France, or Blighty, or anywhere. It could be any time, sir."

"Wake me up when supper's ready." Thornhill closed his eyes, with the hope that he would open them to find himself in his dugout, having dreamt the whole affair.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

In fact, our two luckless soldiers have found themselves in the dead and presumedly uninhabited kingdom, Rhudaur. As our friend Tolkien — a junior officer fighting in the Somme just like Mr. Thornhill, albeit within a different division — was only twenty-four at this time, still scribbling the earliest sketches of what would become the _Silmarillion_ , of course Davies and Thornhill know absolutely nothing of Middle-Earth. Therefore they are extremely confused about how a stick grenade got them where they are. And why it didn't blow them into a disgusting mush, as grenades are wont to do.

This is an un-proofread trial chapter — the rest may follow more slowly, and possibly in bunches. Any queries, critique or issues with my SPaG go in the review box. Please don't hesitate, I want to know what y'all think.

Thanks for reading.

 **A.B.C.**


	2. A Long, Long Trail a-Winding (Or Not)

It took two days before Thornhill's leg had healed sufficiently to allow the two men to travel. Apart from the lack of comfortable sleeping quarters, the first three nights in foreign territory had passed smoothly — no Boche ambushes, rations enough for each man, and even matches to light a fire, courtesy of Thornhill.

But Davies was restless, insisting they cross the river and search for other people. "We can't live on army rations and river-water forever, sir. We need a town to lodge in," he mused worriedly.

"Let my damned leg rest up, then, will you, sergeant?" was always the irritable answer.

Thankfully Thornhill changed his mind two days later. His youth must be commended here: for it had caused his wound to heal fast, so that on the third morning he pronounced his leg quite stiff and extremely sore, but he was able to hobble along with the support of his companion.

Davies did not waste a minute.

* * *

The river proved to be ridiculously difficult to cross. It was too deep to wade through, and the current was too strong to swim without the danger of getting pulled downstream. After sitting down awhile, contemplating how to overcome this, Davies suggested walking down- or up-stream to find stepping stones.

Thornhill suggested they drown themselves and wake up in France.

Ignoring this, Davies dragged the 2nd lieutenant down to some old, slippery boulders in the river that weren't stepping stones, but theoretically the most sensible way of getting across. Thornhill fell off twice, and decided to swim instead. Needless to say, he was utterly exhausted coming out the other side.

Despite the young man's complaints, Davies pressed ruthlessly on, intent on finding civilisation — or at least another poor traveller also lost in those parts. The two soldiers only stopped briefly for meals, taken from their increasingly dwindling rations.

On the third day of travel, they were left with a stale biscuit and five tea-leaves. Thornhill, previously almost useless in the way of providing victuals and comfort, shot a passing hare with his revolver, skinned it and cooked it inside Davies' mess-tin. The resulting meat was tough and unpalatable, but would reach for several meals.

On the fourth day, Davies woke at 2 a.m. — rather, what he assumed was 2 a.m. — to hear his companion complaining that his leg hurt more than usual and would he please change his bandages? A very disgruntled sergeant set about doing this, noticing that the afflicted limb had swelled a little, but was too groggy to notice anything. That night, Thornhill was sweating profusely and his leg was very swollen, the wound having turned a nasty yellow sort of colour.

"Infected," Davies sighed. "Nothing I can do about it, sir. I ain't a surgeon, I'm afraid. Buck up, sir, there's a good fellow," he added, when Thornhill blanched. "We'll keep on going and find a doctor for you." And he changed the dressing and slept.

The poor lieutenant was now feverish, for the infection had spread, and felt it so badly that Davies was compelled to take possession of his revolver, should he shoot himself while his companion was sleeping. The men had walked for five days, now, and there was not a thing to be seen — only the occasional rabbit or crow, which were made use of quickly. Food was reasonably plenty again: Thornhill would take nothing but sips of water.

One night the pain was terrible. The 2nd lieutenant could not sleep, instead crying every few minutes, "O God, take it away, take it away—!" Davies could only give him water from his canteen when Thornhill wanted it (for, thank the Almighty, there were many streams around) and hold his hand to offer comfort. _Dear Lord, please may we find civilisation soon. Please God I beg of You. My commander is in great pain._

* * *

The travelling became slower and slower. Thornhill dared not put weight on his leg, which was near twice its size. Rest stops were made every hour. Packs were abandoned, except for the revolver, rounds, a mess-tin and a canteen.

Davies made a habit of humming nervously in order to pass the time, though _Pack Up Your Troubles_ really did nothing to lift the mood. As if to thwart Davies' efforts forever, the heavens opened and the rain came in torrents, soaking the men to the bone. There was no hope of a warm meal, if any meal — the last of a rather skinny crow had been eaten for breakfast.

"Davies?"

"Yes, sir. Do you want some water? There's plenty above you." He smiled bitterly.

"No, but — how much longer have we to travel?"

"I don't know, sir."

"How much longer have I to live?"

" _Sir_!" Davies ejaculated. "Don't speak of such things. It's — very hard on the morale."

"Rather." Thornhill sank back and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

If Davies was not so exhausted, he would have grumbled incessantly, but speech was not exactly necessary with nobody to talk to. Two days and still nothing, not even a single person.

Perhaps they had died, and this was what was afterwards. But if they had died, why was Thornhill still wounded? Why did they need to eat? How long had it _been_ since they'd arrived here? If only Thornhill's fever would break.

Davies was carrying him now, and had been for the last hour, for, in spite of the protests of his back and shoulders, the young man had fallen into a febrile swoon and could not walk. It would never end. _Bloody funk. I can barely think_. One day after another, change bandages, eat, drink, walk.

Horses. Ridden by cloaked things. If he had the energy, Davies would have fallen upon the ground, weeping with gratitude. Never mind his bloody dignity. Horses meant people. If the French cavalry could just stop by and see him there with a damn _man_ strapped to his back, please God, he prayed. _See us_.

He ran towards them — if quick but unceremonious stumbling can be called running — as if there was a whizz-bang buzzing behind him. _See us, see us, see us_. One man broke off from the line, cantering straight for Davies.

 _Thank the Lord Almighty_.

"Excuse me—" Davies' voice cracked from disuse. "Excuse-moi, un cheval — un cheval, pour my commander — il est —" He paused, panting. "—il est très unwell —"

The cavalryman stared at him blankly. Boche.

"Mein — Freund — ist fast tot. He needs — hilfe —?"

The cavalryman still made no motion.

"Damn it, man! Can't you see what's on my back?" Davies heaved Thornhill off of him, landing him in an undignified heap before the horse. The jarring of his leg caused him to become briefly conscious, and he moaned with the pain. "He needs help. He needs your horse."

Now, the man seemed to understand. He leaped off his horse, revealing himself to be at least two heads taller than Davies, and said something in a strangely musical language that was at all odds with his brusque tone.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that." Davies shrugged his shoulders theatrically, for this extremely tall man most definitely didn't speak English, or French, or German, or anything else, for that matter.

Ignoring Davies, the strange man lifted Thornhill gently onto the steed — eliciting another stricken moan from the soldier — and clambered up behind him. Without another word, he cantered back to the waiting cavalry. If it was cavalry, that is.

"Bloody hell, and just leave me here?" However, the man returned after a few minutes, saying something else in his language. From the sound of it, he was in a frightful mood and had heard what Davies had said, despite being what Davies assumed was out of earshot. The sergeant barely had time to apologise — not that the stranger would understand him, anyway — before a pair of hands with an iron grip lifted him onto a horse.

The ride was short and unpleasant. Judging from the constant jolting, the horse was going at a trot, which did nothing to help Davies' fear of falling off. There was a brief reprieve as the stranger took his place at the front of the line and said something to the people behind him, but off they were again, trotting.

This quickly became a walk when Thornhill showed signs of extreme discomfort. Lulled by the lack of nauseating up-and-down, Davies fell into some kind of black torpor.

It had been a long, long time.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

For non-German speakers...

 _Mein Freund ist fast tot_ = My friend is almost dead

I assume the franglais/ Frenglish is decipherable enough.

Finally, thank goodness, Thornhill's leg infection is able to be cured. I think y'all can guess by whom. For those who can't — well, that's what the next chapter is for, isn't it.

By some excruciatingly crude calculations of mine, it would take three days for Thornhill and Davies to get to Rivendell from where they were, as the crow flies. This only makes sense if they take only one one-hour stop during the day, and a nine-hour rest at night.

 _However_ , that doesn't take into account poor Ernest Thornhill's leg wound and eventual infection, which would have not only slowed the going considerably but would have also needed frequent stops in order to change bandages, and to rest when the leg complained. Also the fact that generally we don't travel in dead straight lines. Therefore, I assumed that it would take about a week to get to where they are now.

If you're wondering why on earth Davies assumes the Elves on horses are the French cavalry, this is based on the fact that French cavalrymen wore blue cloaks, and the Elves are wearing cloaks. If this actually isn't true and my memory got it wrong, first reviewer who tells me will get a metaphorical prize.

Thank you to all who reviewed. I'm sorry I couldn't reply to anybody else's reviews apart from _TMI Fairy_ , but I discovered too late that one can't make two reviews for the same chapter. Another stupid mistake on my part, but thank you all, carry on like that.

Queries and nitpicks go in the review box, don't hold back.

 **A.B.C.**


	3. Catching an Imladris One

The bed was too soft, at first. Davies could not get used to the sinking feeling whenever he turned around. He had dreamt that he was drilling recruits on a parade-ground in Étaples again. _Left, right, left, right, left — TARN! Sharples, your dressing is a shambles! Get in, Thompson!_ Suddenly, a particularly young recruit had fallen out of line and punched him, and Davies drowned in the mud at the front before he could even bawl insubordination.

He seemed to be drowning still as he woke, until he found himself upon a bed. Davies' back, so used to sleeping on hard ground or inside a funk-hole with his pack for a pillow, now felt unsupported. It took him a few minutes to get used to it, but there was no denying that the bed was comfortable.

"Cushy." Davies glanced up at the ceiling, grinning. There was a fine crack which spidered out from the centre of it. The ceiling was otherwise impeccably whitewashed.

The sergeant threw off his blankets and stood up — which at first made him so dizzy he nearly passed out — before noticing that somebody had stripped him of his muddied battledress, leaving him in his undershirt and socks. No — he just about recalled clumsily ripping his tunic and trousers off before collapsing into this bed. Or was it a bed in the infirmary? Then how did he get in this wonderful room?

 _Thornhill_.

Davies shook the thought out of his head. It simply wasn't decent to run out of his bedroom in an undershirt and socks, asking for news of his commander. Now for some clothes.

The men who took him here had obviously not thought to provide anything, as there was not a chest of drawers, nor a wardrobe in sight. All Davies could see was an old curtain draped over the back of a chair. _Don't you men dress in shirts and trousers, then_.

He wandered over to a long mirror, only to see that he had lost much weight since he last glanced in a looking-glass; that his hair, previously neatly parted, had rearranged itself nicely into a complete rat's-nest; and that he had grown a beard. Davies chuckled at this wanton breaking of the army regulations, before taking hold of the curtain on the chair.

"Bloody hell, so this the Battle of Hastings, then!" For further inspection of the curtain had revealed a long-sleeved surcoat, a neatly folded tunic and leggings, along with a pair of leather half-boots upon the seat. Nevertheless, he donned them, having no alternative.

Another glance at the mirror revealed them all too long, so that the sleeves covered his hands and the surcoat dragged several inches on the floor. _If only you could see me now, Gertrude dear_. Davies' beard and hollow, exhausted visage complimented the ridiculous outfit beautifully.

* * *

"Sweel, ah-dan. Eeyenethen Ozgarriyel." Thornhill opened his sticky eyes.

A naked leg was strapped before him, wounded, oozing something horrible and yellow. He gagged when he saw it first, and promptly turned his head to the side and vomited when he realised it was his.

"Ah-vo drrasto, ah-vo drrasto, adan." Thornhill turned his head back to see a woman bending over him, wiping his mouth.

"Did I — did I catch a Blighty one?" He coughed. _My throat is so dry_. "Where am I?"

"Ah-vo bedo, adan." Now she wiped his forehead. He blinked. She was so inhumanly beautiful, she put the ladies at the regimental balls to shame. "Ah-vo drrasto." And then she said something else beyond Thornhill's hearing.

"Where's _ah-vo drasto_?" He just couldn't trill the 'r' the way she did. "Where am I?"

"Sssssh, adan." The beautiful lady — he _supposed_ she was a nurse, but the military hospitals only had horse-types, not angels such as _this_ one — clanked a bowl underneath his leg, and smeared a soothing ointment onto the wound itself. Then came a cup of bitter water which sent Thornhill into a swoon.

* * *

Apart from the necessity of lifting up his robes like a lady's skirts, Davies found the infirmary with relative ease. The room was quiet: it lacked the purposeful bustle that was present in every military hospital he had visited. Not to mention, there was a decided lack of nauseating mixture of infection, death and carbolic that usually assaulted one's nose, which was welcome indeed.

Thornhill lay on a bed near the door. His wounded leg was elevated, in order to drain the pus that had swelled it. The aforementioned nastiness dripped into a porcelain bowl underneath. _I've seen much worse, I suppose_. The man himself was asleep, pale and unshaven, just like Davies, but it seemed that he had turned the corner.

Davies stood at the foot of the bed, thinking. How was it, in France, in Blighty? Gertrude, poor girl, must have thought her husband had disappeared in action. Had the telegram boy arrived yet, guiltily handing over that awful slip of paper? Of course — it had been well over a week since that bloody grenade had started everything. If he could just appear in his little house in Berkshire, just as he had been dropped here, and tell Eva and Andrew that their Papa was in fact alive and well.

"'Oo th'ell are you?" Thornhill had awoken, very confused.

"Sergeant Davies, reporting, sir!" Davies snapped to attention and saluted, looking rather silly in the process. "You sound like you've had some first-class blotto, sir, if you don't mind me saying so."

Thornhill snorted. "And I feel like it too. _Doesn't_ my head hurt."

"What did they give you, sir?"

"Some sort of a sleeping potion."

"And how's the leg?"

"Painful as ever, but as you can see, it's smaller. Those nurses work magic." Thornhill's eyelids began to fall again. "I say, I'm ever so tired. You were a first-class brick, carrying me all the way here, sergeant."

"I had to, to keep you alive, sir," he replied grimly. But the 2nd lieutenant was already dozing.

Davies wandered out of the infirmary again, pulling at his beard. It really had to go. He wasn't accustomed to such scruffiness. Perhaps he would find a razor — the men here were all so well-shaven, he was sure they had razors in abundance.

They were so strange. The men here all shaved entirely, but most left their hair to grow long like a woman's. You could barely tell the men and women apart anyway, they looked so similar. Thankfully the women wore dresses and tied their hair more elaborately, or Davies would have had a terrible time of it. And they were all so young and _beautiful_. So beautiful that Davies sometimes regretted marrying, just so he could be close to one of them. How would Thornhill fare? He was barely a boy — he would probably be unable to control himself.

A young man walked past him just then, dark hair long and resplendent. _Men with long hair. Funny, you'd think they were savages_. Well, anything for a razor. "Ah—"

The man turned. "Ah!" And then proceeded to jabber something unrecognisable.

 _Damn._ "Excuse me, sir. I don't speak your language. Do you speak English?" Davies waved his arms, but the man did not bat an eyelid. He simply began to talk again, more haltingly, in a language more guttural than the last.

"Sir. I do not —" a vast shake of the head "— speak —" he pointed towards his mouth "— your language. Languages."

The man replied, still speaking gobbledegook. A shrug of the shoulders, a finger pointed towards Davies, and a jab towards his head.

"You don't know what I..." The man sighed. "What do I want." Davies reciprocated the gesture, before a sloppy imitation of a shave.

The man's face slid into a smile. He shook his head. He pointed his finger at Davies. "Le. Ah-dan." He pretended to shave his face. "Ni. Eh-thell." He pointed at himself, shook his head and shaved again.

"You — don't shave, then. You have no razors." Davies tried again. "No —" a shake of the head "— razors." he flipped an imaginary one open.

The man shook his head. "Ooh."

"Well, I'll be on my way then." Then, pointing at himself, "Sergeant Bertie Davies." He stuck his hand out for a handshake. The man chuckled, evidently confused as to what to do.

"Thindor. Nor vayn ee ah-rad."

"Eh — good day, sir." Davies withdrew his hand and walked on. Thin-door, at least, was proficient in sign-language. Thin-door also happened to have deformed ears that looked like leaves.

* * *

Davies was having an awful time of it. If waving his arms in front of Thin-door wasn't enough, he had to do the same to the blacksmith. The furnace was beginning to boil him too — the fumes made him feel ill, and sweat was pouring down his face.

He had found the forge during a wander round after lunch. Fresh bread with butter and a thick stew that didn't taste like billy-can petrol agreed with Davies, but made him sleepy. He had taken it upon himself to ask one of the blacksmiths if they would perhaps make a razor blade for him, seeing as these mysterious men didn't even need to shave.

All the men there were busy and short-tempered, but a young apprentice offered to make it for him, through over-enthusiastic nods of the head. And now Davies had to describe a razor blade using his hands.

He also found that this apprentice was actually over a century old, which was considered extremely young in the eyes of the people here. What were they called, again. Ethels, or something. Davies couldn't quite remember.

Thankfully, the apprentice did know about razors and was able to construct one serviceable enough for Davies' use, though it was crude and likely to give him quite a few nasty cuts on the cheeks. "Cheero, lad. Norvain ee-arad, or something like that."

The apprentice laughed and went back to his work. "No vain i arad, adan."

Davies was quite relieved to be outside again. At least the voluminous sleeves of his mediaeval robes had some use.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Sindarin translations

Suil, Adan. I enethen Osgariel. _Greetings_ , _Man_. _My_ _name_ _is_ _Osgariel_.

Avo drasto. _Do not worry_.

Avo bedo. _Do not speak_.

Le. Adan. _You (reverential). Man._

Ni. Edhel. _Me/I. Elf._

No vain i arad. _Lovely day_.

Û. _No. (It is not so)_

I spelled all the Sindarin in this chapter phonetically, about as accurately as I can get the pronunciation of Sindarin. This is to enhance the disorientating experience of listening to a language you've never even heard of. Davies and, later, Thornhill, will have to completely reduce themselves to embarrassing hand gestures and facial expressions for the next two weeks until they pick up Sindarin, or Common Speech, or whatever the Elves decide to teach them. Even then they'll have to speak pigeon and wave their arms around.

Hopefully you won't have too much trouble with the phonetic writing. If you do, I'll simply edit it to non-phonetic spelling and everything will be fine.

Sindarin names

Osgariel - daughter of an amputator

Thindor - pale/grey brother

Realistically, the OCs aren't going to run into Elrond, the twins, Erestor and Glorfindel on the first day in Imladris. There are many more elves to meet, and I have to make names for them, obviously. Names and phrases taken from trustworthy sources, also known as Merin Essi ar Quenteli.

The reason why Thindor jabbers on in Sindarin after Davies says 'ah' is simple. "A!" is a simple greeting in Sindarin, pronounced 'ah'. Thindor therefore reciprocates, much to the poor sergeant's confusion.

I'm not sure how to portray the Elves' reaction to Davies wandering around receiving culture shocks. For now I've kept it as light amusement, but otherwise they are getting on with their immortal lives. Do suggest how it could be done better, if you can.

Enough ranting about the language barrier. Over to you, good reviewers. Ask me, criticise me, everything is welcome to a degree.

Thanks for reading.

 **A.B.C.**


	4. Strange New World

"I say, Davies, I'm getting to be rather spoilt here — if I were in France, the orderlies would have turned me out of here already!" Thornhill laughed gently.

"Well, sir, this isn't France. It's a place called _Im-lad-ris_. I heard some of the people here talking about it."

Both Davies and Thornhill paused awhile, each no doubt thinking about home. If their trenches could be called home — they had mostly forgotten about their real homes a long time ago. Reading and the vicarage seemed so far away.

They had been in Imladris for roughly two weeks. Thornhill was finally well, or nearly so. The _edhellen_ (this, apparently, was what these people called themselves) made him stay in the infirmary anyway, to ensure his leg was completely rested. He was allowed to leave the next day. However, Thornhill was permitted to wander around a little.

"Well, have you thought about where Im-lad-ris is?"

"You tell me you went to Harrow, and you ask me? My schoolteacher barely brought out the globe and atlas when I was a boy," Davies replied. "You tell me."

"Well, honestly, I don't know. It could be Norway, or Russia. Im-lad-ris sounds slightly Russian."

"Don't mind me saying, sir, but you're bloody useless."

Thornhill had to hide his face in the blankets to stifle his laughter. "Shame, speaking to a superior officer like that! I'll have you court-martialed when we get back, mark my words."

"My pleasure, sir." Davies said, smiling himself.

"Will we ever return, though?" The soldiers sobered.

"I'm not sure. Something tells me we're here for keeps. Sir," Davies added, having forgotten for a moment that he was speaking to an officer.

"I say, Davies — it's queer of me to say so, but — suppose you stopped calling me sir?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"We're not soldiers anymore, really. I doubt we'll ever return to those blasted trenches again. Let's call each other as friends from now on, because that's all we'll ever be here."

"I don't see why—"

But Thornhill had already stuck out his hand. "Ernest Thornhill, good sergeant. Give me your name and then we're just two poor men amongst unearthly beings that we can barely speak to."

"Well, sir, I —" Thornhill glared. "Bertie Davies. I suppose you've just discharged us both from the Army, haven't you."

"No, Bertie, I haven't. I simply want us to forget the horrendous war that's a million miles away from us. No use drowning in a funk about something you have no part in."

"I drown in no funk, thank you very much."

"Regardless, we should make sure we know our way around here. Because this is where we are. As you said, for keeps." Thornhill leant back on the pillows, sighing. The combined smell of flowers, farm animals and edhellen wafted in from outside and the corridors temptingly, making him restless. _They must let me go. I can walk and talk, there is nothing left to heal._

"Well, Ernest, that's clear then — sir? Are you alright?"

Thornhill swallowed and schooled his face back to an innocent expression. "Perfectly topping."

"As I was saying, we should go for a walk. It's wonderful weather outside." Davies heaved himself from the foot of Thornhill's bed. Thornhill followed suit, wincing as he tested his leg. Healed as it was, the limb was stiff, due to sporadic use.

* * *

The sun baked everything nicely in the yards outside the infirmary. Every footstep the men took raised a little dust, disappearing in a little whirl. Despite this, the forge was boiling on as usual, and men and women happily worked as they would in cooler weather. Nobody seemed to show any signs of great discomfort.

Meanwhile, Thornhill and Davies had shed their outer robes: partly because of the heat, and partly because their great length made for great red stains from the dust the hems picked up. Seeing as they had to wash their own clothes now, in the nearby river, it was much easier just to leave the clothes as clean as possible.

Davies steered Thornhill towards the forge, and ushered him inside, despite the terrific heat that nearly knocked the two of them out. However hot it was, this place was Davies' favourite haunt, having gotten rather friendly with a few of the apprentices there. It was still a little perturbing, the fact that these edhellen were sixty years or older, but looked like and were generally of the disposition of a young lad of seventeen or eighteen, perhaps. Of course, they were all beardless and more handsome than Davies or Thornhill could ever hope to be.

"A Himelon!"

"A Béti!" One of the apprentices looked up with a grin, his silvery hair darkened with soot. "It is warm here, is it not?" He fanned himself, by way of elucidation.

"Er — yes, very hot!" While Davies had picked up some of their language, he still communicated predominantly by speaking loudly and slowly in English, miming what his words meant. "I do not know how you are able to work!"

"We do not feel the cold or the heat as strongly as you mortals do," explained Himelon, gesturing and grinning all the while.

"I say, he is rather a Cheshire Cat, don't you think, Bertie?" Thornhill murmured.

"He thinks we are funny. They all do," replied Davies quietly. "Apparently they've never seen the likes of us before." He raised his voice again. "Well, Himelon, and what are you making there?"

"A dagger." The young ellon — Davies knew that meant a man of the edhellen, but there seemed to be no word for youth — held up his handiwork with a pair of unwieldy iron tongs. "Touch it not, for it will most certainly burn you."

"That looks very good!"

"Ni 'lassui, Béti. This is my second attempt — I do not have much experience in making weapons. My master says I have promise, but I am clumsy and make the blades uneven."

"I'm sorry, Himelon?" Davies cupped his hand to his ear.

"Worry not! I most likely spoke too fast. I forget you do not know much of our language, and I do not speak much of the Common Speech."

"I — no — speaking Common Speech." Davies attempted some of the language, and was tried sorely.

Apart from laughing at Davies' abysmal pronunciation, Himelon was sympathetic. "Then we will not be able to speak very much, I suppose. It is no worry of mine — we seem to understand each other well enough."

"I suppose." Davies turned around, noticing Thornhill's lack of participation in the conversation. It was all very well that he looked: Ernest, poor man, was doing all he could not to pass out from the heat. Davies glanced at his pale face and the beads of sweat on his upper lip, and said a quick goodbye to Himelon before rushing outside again with the young man in tow.

* * *

"Better, Ernest?" The men sat now outside. Thornhill, after several minutes of frantic fanning, had finally become more alert, though still a little nauseous.

"Did you have to go in _there_ to make friends?"

"Well, on my first afternoon here, a lad called — what — Adwee-ahlion, I think it was — he made me a razor so I could shave my damn beard off. I found I rather liked the boys in the forge, so I did all my lollygagging there."

"It's frightfully hot in there."

"Don't blame you. I'm only just beginning to get used to it. Today was bloody awful."

"Rather! Let's go inside — it ought to be cooler." Thornhill marched decidedly into the shade of an overhanging roof and back in a dark, windowless corridor. "Much better."

The two men, being two rather bored men, began to walk down the corridor, looking for doors to open and things to see. It was inevitable, then, that they found the library.

Now the edhellen, especially the sort that lived here in Imladris, were very fond of lore and history. There were a few edhellen that were so old, they were lore and history itself. Therefore it was sensible that the library was one of the largest areas inside Imladris. Wooden shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, stacked with scrolls and sheets of parchment and paper, as well as many beautifully bound books.

Thornhill, in particular, had been a voracious reader before he was commissioned into the Royal Berkshire Regiment. Even at the front, at first, there was always a novel of some sorts tucked into his tunic pocket for when he was off-duty. Lately, he had stopped. As though the war tainted words until they were unreadable.

He took a book, bound in green cloth, from one of the shelves and opened it. _I can't read a word._ The script inside was handwritten, curlicues and sweeping stems, but not Roman script. Something different. _I can't read it. I want to read it._ Thornhill dropped the book on the floor, half in anger, half with some queer feeling he couldn't place. Everything swum before him. _Bloody book, you damn bloody book I can't read you damn it._ Even his thoughts swum.

"Sir — I mean — Ernest? You aren't _crying_ , are you?"

"What? Bertie? No! Why on earth would I be?" Everything snapped back to place. He could see again. Thornhill rubbed his face. Wet. _No_. "I'm awfully sorry, Bertie, I forgot myself for a moment. Let me put this back." Before he could bend down to pick up the book, however, a quiet voice spoke behind him.

"I see you find the book heavy." Of course, it was spoken in the other language, and Thornhill did not understand.

"What's that?"

"I see you find the book heavy." This time it was spoken slower, but the speaker did not raise his voice, nor wave his arms around miming what he just said. "Istog peded edhellen?"

"I — don't understand what you are saying." Thornhill bent down to pick up his book. Looking up, he saw a shadowed face. Glossy dark hair that hung down in plaits told him it must be another one of those edhellen. Or elves, as he preferred to dub them, though they were nothing like the small things in fairy-stories. It was the closest English word to edhellen, anyhow. He decided the it would be best to start the conversation afresh. "Good day. I am Ernest Thornhill. You?"

The strange elf didn't laugh, as the others Thornhill had met would. If he understood the young man's pointing, he didn't show it. "I enethen Erestor."

"He means _I'm Erestor_ ," Bertie pointed out helpfully. "But I don't know what he was saying at first. Erestor: I no speaking edhellen. I no speaking Common Speech."

Erestor reacted minimally to this, as well. "If the book is not heavy for you, then it is my wish you put it back. These books are precious to us." Bertie's comments did affect him after all. He spoke more with his hands, though his signs were vague. It was obvious he had little interest in whether the two men understood him or not. Before anybody could speak, Erestor had removed himself from the situation.

"I say! — isn't he high and mighty!" Thornhill ejaculated, still irritated at his loss of control earlier.

"I reckon he's a busy man. He's always bustling around, in these dark blue robes. If the edhellen had servants, I'd say he was one, but they seem to be quite easy about that sort of thing."

"He could have helped us understand him—"

"His mind was elsewhere, sir."

"As is yours — you called me sir again, and you promised not to."

"I'm terribly sorry, sir." Davies grinned.

"What on the Lord's earth am I going to do with you, sergeant Davies?"

"Put me back in the Army, where I belong, Ernest!"

"Why, I'm a bloody pipsqueak! I haven't the power! Go ask Field Marshal Haig. Ask the bloody King, if you wish." Good humour restored, Thornhill began to find his way back to the infirmary. Davies laughed and made his way to lunch.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

First of all, my answers to the queries in the reviews are well overdue, so I'll write them here. AvtorSola, I don't even know where my plot is going to go, but this story works with the assumption that Tolkien was merely translating old documents and histories — for example, Bilbo, Frodo and Sam's Red Book — into English. Therefore the canon will be as up-to-date as possible. Seeing as I haven't read the books in some time, there may be some issues and I will re-read them as soon as possible. If anybody spots mistakes (canon purists, I'm looking at you!) please don't hesitate to call them out.

TMI Fairy, I reckon Davies ditched the Lee-Enfield(s) along with his pack and most of the equipment inside so that he could carry Thornhill in the second chapter. I don't know about the never-mentioned hand grenades.

Sindarin translations

Ni 'lassui. _Thank you_.

Istog peded edhellen? _Do you speak Elvish?_

I enethen Erestor. _My name is Erestor._

Names

Himelon - cold star

Aduialion - son of evendim

Most elves in Rivendell would be dark-haired, but they were a mixture of Noldor and Sindar. Some of the Sindar (notably, Elu Thingol in the first age) had silver hair, so I assume there were a few around.

Béti is simply Bertie, written phonetically according to Sindarin pronunciation. Why does Davies like to hang at the forge with the apprentices, you ask? I think he'd enjoy the company of younger elves more, since they are understandably less intimidating, less serious and less wise, and therefore more relatable. Surely, after being a drill sergeant for a couple of years, one is used to the power a few stripes give you. When you exclude all the officers and sergeant-majors, Sergeant Davies had his fair share of being top dog, with little recruits cowering at the sound of his footsteps. Therefore he'd feel more comfortable at least among his equals.

Yes, today they meet Erestor. I suppose the story _would_ become boring if not one of the iconic characters of Rivendell appeared somewhere. Elrond, as Lord of Imladris, is probably still too important to pop up randomly. But Erestor would probably enjoy a nice read in the library, so it makes sense to place him there.

Keep reviewing, good readers, I really do appreciate it — honestly! Usual protocol with queries, critique and other opinions applies.

Cheero,

 **A.B.C.**


	5. Ernest's Mission

Ernest Thornhill was on a mission. He strode purposefully — my, how long had it been since he'd done anything purposeful? — through the halls and corridors of the Palace. Of course, nobody called it the Palace. It was the only halfway appropriate name that he and his friend Bertie could conjure for the place, which seemed to be a mixture of home, monastery, hospital, and a particularly morally uptight public house.

Ernest had returned to the library a day or two ago, to try and find any book that could possibly contain letters he could read. The search was all to no avail: every book and sheet of parchment that he had bothered to look at contained the same swirly script. After fighting the urge to destroy the whole library, Ernest decided to find somebody to teach him to read the queer letters.

And here he was now, asking anybody who looked at least partially literate and not too busy, whether they could spare the time to teach him to read their letters. A group of women talking beside a fountain seemed a likely target, but their incredible beauty intimidated the poor man. A male elf laconically tending a vegetable bed was less frightening. However, he was indeed busy, so Thornhill continued, determined.

Eventually, a lady by name of Silevel offered to give him lessons. She was friendly, found Ernest amusing, and was by all means willing to help. The only problem was that she was a woman. Perhaps, if she were rounder and ruddier in the face, had uglier hands and a coarser voice, she would have been pleasant company. But Silevel had none of those things, so her mere presence caused Thornhill to blush violently. _Why are they all so damn beautiful_.

She took him to a small alcove. "Wait here; you will want something to write upon."

Thornhill understood nothing, as usual, but was highly relieved when she left. He could not imagine learning anything from a supernatural creature such as her. No woman had ever taught him anything, other than his mother.

Silevel returned, a slate and slate-pencil in her hands. She asked Ernest what language he wished to learn. "Anything, ma'am. But I want to learn how to read." After he repeated this wish, flailing his arms, Silevel finally understood.

"I speak a little Common Speech, but I do not write it."

"Common Speech." Thornhill deliberated for a moment.

"It is best," Silevel explained, signing as much as was necessary, "that you learn the tongue of Men, for you may wish to leave this place and dwell among those like yourself."

"That I think and speak like men, should I want to — escape? And — oh, I say, speak English, will you!" Some of Silevel's hand gestures were quite open to interpretation.

Silevel laughed. _Bloody hell, even her laughs sound like music._ "I will teach you." Without further ado, she was drawing objects upon the slate and saying what they were, and Thornhill was doing his best to follow and repeat. Needless to say, it took him the best part of an hour to learn _elf_ and _man_ , as well as the names of other people who inhabited this place that Silevel called 'Arda'. _Dwarves_ and _halflings_ , both people small in stature, the detested _orcs_ who apparently were evil beings that liked to kill the other, good people.

Once Thornhill had enough, his head reeling with vocabulary of only half of which he'd remember later, Silevel handed him a sheet of parchment. "Words you hear from the Common Speech, you write here, in your own letters. You will not hear it often here, in Imladris. Should our lord Elrond see visitors from lands far away, listen then, when you are able. It is how I learned what little Common Speech I speak now." Silevel smiled, much to Ernest's discomfiture.

"Ni 'lassui, m — ma'am." The young man squirmed inside, at his inferior pronunciation. _Damn my clumsy British tongue_.

"It has been a pleasure to teach you, adan." Silevel smiled again, at Thornhill's hastily retreating figure.

* * *

"Bloody Common Speech! It's worse than Latin! _Videre, vidi, visus_. _Laudare, laudavi, laudatus_. And I hated my Latin master." Thornhill stormed into Davies' room, his face thunder.

"I don't see why you toffs must learn such things. Reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic was good enough for me."

"Bloody Common Speech!"

"Why, what on earth is wrong with the Common Speech?"

"I can't learn it. She just — distracts me — too m—"

"I beg your pardon? _She_?" Davies looked up from a sheet of parchment on his knee.

"I —" Thornhill sighed. "A lady is teaching me. And she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, I can't concentrate. It's bloody awful," he finished helplessly.

"Well, Ernest, they say young love burns out fast. You'll be tip-top in no time."

"I am certainly _not_ sweet on Silevel! What on earth made you think that?"

"Why, you know her name!"

"Bertie."

Davies glanced up again, face innocent. "I'm giving you advice, young man. How old are you, anyhow?"

"Twenty."

"Do you have a sweetheart at home?"

"No. I joined up directly I left school."

"Young love indeed. Don't go sweethearting, now — Silevel is most likely a hundred or more years old."

"Who says _I'm_ sweethearting?" Thornhill retorted indignantly. "Anyhow, what on the Lord's earth are you doing, sitting with a blank piece of paper like that?"

"None of your business, young man. Why don't you put your nose to the grindstone, now, and learn your Common Speech? Something useful to be getting on with, now you aren't leading men into battle." Davies fiddled with the parchment on his knee. "You don't have anything to write with, do you?"

"No. They use feather-pens here. I say, it's like being thrown back into the Middle-Ages."

Ernest began to pace around the room distractedly, inadvertently muttering what vocabulary he could remember from that day. The spirit of a schoolboy was in him yet, not quite pushed out by two years of shelling, mud and other horrors.

* * *

 _My dear Gertrude, Eva and little Andrew,_

 _I am safe, and very well. Don't you heed that telegram, if they gave you a telegram. I am not injured or ill, but I don't know whether I'll be home. You see, a grenade blasted me and an officer into some wilderness place. We walked for a week or so, and found this place called Imladris._

 _I didn't think so at first, but it's absolutely beautiful. Even the people who inhabit it are beautiful. They call themselves edhellen. I don't think they are human. Some of them are well over a thousand years old (would you believe that!) but they look about as young as twenty-one. All of them._

 _I wish I could bring you here, my dears. Thankfully I am out of the mud and grime and though I feel like I am shirking I am glad to be in Imladris. At any rate they feed me and the officer very well._

 _Much love,_

 _Papa_

Davies read through the letter again. He had never mastered the art of neat copper-plate handwriting, but what he wrote was reasonably legible, and letters in war-time were never really required to be written in perfect script anyhow. Perhaps Imladris had some sort of postal service that would send his letter. If they could do it on the front line, sending letters was possible here.

With a final blow on the paper to dry the ink, and a sour face at the scratchy, uneven letters a goose-feather quill produced, Bertie Davies folded his letter. _Mrs. Albert Davies, 12 M— Street, Berkshire, England_. Now to find the postman.

* * *

"Who is this pós men you speak of?"

"Man — carry — this?" Davies offered, waving the piece of paper in the hapless elf's face.

Said elf knit his brow for a moment, before his face brightened. "Perhaps you mean a courier. Could you not ride out and deliver the message yourself?"

"I do not know — er — North, East, South, West?" Davies groped for a word. "The —"

"The way? Where do you wish this letter to go?"

"It says here," Davies said, lapsing into English, before realising that the elf couldn't read his language. "Berkshire, England."

"I know not where Bác sae Íngland is. Goheno nin, adan."

"The British Isles? Blighty?"

The elf shook his head.

"Very well. No vain i arad." Davies left, suddenly feeling quite weary, as though somebody had placed weights upon his head and chest. _No postal service. Well, I suppose they didn't have no letters in the Battle of Hastings, either._ He found himself wandering to the dining hall. If the edhellen had clocks, perhaps Davies would be able to tell whether it was time for supper or not.

He'd need a good brew to take his mind off things, anyhow. How long had it been since he'd had to do that.

* * *

 **Author's note:**

Oh, dear. I suppose not being able to write to your family feels like being forced to go to a hotel somewhere, only to find out it doesn't have any WiFi. During the First World War, letter-writing was not only allowed, but encouraged, to keep up the troops' morale. I suppose some soldiers depended on it. Now being unable to contact his family in any way, even just to tell them he's alright, Bertie must be pretty bummed.

If you're wondering why my grammar has lapsed while writing the letter, Davies (being in the ranks) was just an ordinary boy, who went to school during the 1890s. Schooling for children such as Davies was simple, learning how to write, read and cipher (maths). Apart from religious instruction and the occasional lesson in history or geography, and perhaps sewing for the girls, there wasn't much to education in the late Victorian times. Davies is on the more intelligent side of average, but nevertheless forgets comma placement and other grammar rules.

For Thornhill, who went to Harrow, and straight after that, to Sandhurst (an officer training academy in Britain, which is about 300 years old from the very beginning), 'schooling' is somewhat revisited as part nightmare, part joy. Silevel can't teach him to write Common Speech using Tengwar, as all the Westron she learnt was from listening in to Elrond's important conversations with people who spoke no Sindarin. Even then, she only picked up enough for a smattering of vocabulary.

Davies has chosen not to ask for help in his language quest. As you can see, his Sindarin is developing — most likely due to the hours he spends in the forge, talking to his friends. He is also a proud man: ain't nobody going to teach him! So we have one who is used to being taught, and one who wishes to teach themselves.

Sindarin Translations

Goheno nin. _Forgive me_.

 _TMI Fairy_ \- I don't want to steal all your ideas off you! Thornhill will introduce Davies' apprentice friends to the wonders of cigarettes in the next chapter…

 _TolkienScribe_ \- It's a mystery. I don't like to explain this supernatural stuff, it requires too much working of the plot. I prefer to keep the Valar out of it though, don't know why they'd care about some puny humans who spend their time smoking, playing cards and waiting to go over the top.

To all others who had no queries, thanks for leaving your reviews. For those who have come late upon my story, read and review, fellows! Queries and critique appreciated.

No vain i arad,

 **A.B.C.**


	6. Disorientation and a Smoke

The door to the Lord of Imladris' study was made of oak, thick and medieval-looking. Davies knocked. "Minno," came the command from behind it. The men entered, feeling quite unsure of themselves — it was like being invited to tea with the King, really. It came as a shock, when they saw the presumed Lord of Imladris sitting at his desk, hair pulled back in a haphazard plait and his outer robes discarded upon a bench in the corner. If he had not some otherworldly authoritative aura about him that denoted him as a Lord, the only sign of leadership would be a circlet set crookedly upon his head.

"Blimey, and isn't he the Lord of this place!" Davies muttered, before speaking up. "Lord — what — Elrond, you want — see me? And Ernest?"

Elrond's head snapped up. He was no doubt _tens_ of thousands of years old. Davies could tell. Something about his eyes were funny, like they'd seen hard times and battle over and over again, until they were so damned weary they didn't notice them properly anymore — yet, the same grey eyes looked _happy_ and _young_ at the same time. Not as if they were hiding that melancholy wisdom, but as if the two moods existed side by side, but not exactly that either. That was the edhellen — nobody could really understand them, even if you tried.

Those eyes crinkled into a smile. "You are the strange men who arrived some time ago here. Glindir found you and your companion in Rhudaur, I believe, both quite ill. He was journeying back to Imladris, or I fear we would have lost your companion."

"I — I speak edhellen," Davies stammered, "but no Common Speech. My — friend learns, but is no — good."

"Forgive me — you do not appear to be an elf-friend," replied Elrond, this time in Sindarin.

"Elf-friend? I no know what elf-friend is. No — I hear. From you. Elves. You no speak Common Speech."

"You are strange indeed, adan. The way in which you speak the Elven-tongue is queerer than other Men who have attempted it."

Davies did not wholly understand what Elrond was talking about. The man was slightly intimidating, sitting tall — taller than any man he had seen — behind this desk, even as his dark hair fell out of its plait, his circlet almost falling onto his ear. In full, robed regalia, Elrond must be terrifying, Davies thought. _And I wouldn't want to see him in battle. Even if they have no whizz-bangs or Lewis guns here_. "Why you want to see us?"

"I have some garments I wish to return." Elrond turned, procuring two neatly folded, but battle-stained, tunics. Underneath them were trousers, and drawers. Everything that the two men had worn on the first of July, nineteen-sixteen, except for their undershirts and socks.

"I _say_ —" Thornhill's breath hitched, in shock more than anything else.

"Why the _hell_ did you — I mean —" Davies turned back to Sindarin, though English was really the only way he could have expressed his surprise. It was good, he supposed, for his filthy language might have shocked the elf-lord. "Why you — have them?"

"These are queer garments — even in my long years have I not seen anything like them in Middle-Earth, where I have travelled. Osgariel, one of my healers, gave them to me. Examining them has been a pleasure, a respite from matters regarding the Ring."

"Diheno nin. I do not understand." Davies was used to understanding — in general — the Sindarin the elves spoke to him, sometimes even without hand-signs. Long paragraphs were difficult, however. "I — take — garments?"

"You may take them: I have no use for them, and no doubt you prefer to clothe yourselves the way you are accustomed to," Elrond replied. Davies took the kit from the desk, recoiling as the smell of sweat and blood assaulted his nostrils. "Yet I have something to tell you. You hail not from Arda."

"Arda." Thornhill spoke up. "That's what Silevel called the earth here."

"You say — we hail not — earth?" Davies enquired. _Does Lord Elrond mean to say we are Martians?_

 _"_ You hail not from Arda, our dwelling. You are edain, but not of the sort that live here."

"I don't think Arda is earth," whispered Thornhill confidentially.

Davies really had no other way to explain, except in English. Pity if Elrond didn't understand. "Well, er — your Lordship — you see, we come from a place called Earth. Planet — earth. I don't know if that is Arda or not, but if it isn't, we have magically appeared here and I see no way we are getting back."

"I know nothing of this éth you speak of. Arda is the dwelling of all the free peoples of Middle-Earth."

"I do not understand."

"You hail not from Arda. These garments you hold in your arms are made of strange cloth — they have not been weaved by the looms of Men."

"Then — how did we get here?" Davies hoped his voice didn't squeak, or anything panicky like that. "A grenade just came our way, and pop! we were gone!"

Elrond looked on with sympathy. "Forgive me, but I have other matters to attend to, and I must ask you to leave now."

"Sir." Davies felt the word strangle his throat. "We have to leave, sir," he said, turning to Thornhill.

"Oh — right. Thank you, sergeant. Davies." Thornhill shook his head like a wet dog. "Bertie."

Elrond righted his circlet. The door shut with a dull thud.

* * *

Thornhill willed the queasy feeling in his stomach to go away. It wasn't _awful_ , being in another world of sorts. What difference did it make being unable to come back? _I can't go back. Ever._ He searched through his tunic pockets. A pencil. An unsent letter. His pay-book. Cigarettes.

He took the latter and opened the pack. There were three left, remarkably clean. A pittance — he went through four or so in an hour, off-duty — but better than nothing. He turned to his friend. "I say, Bertie, do you have a light?" He brandished a cigarette.

"Why on earth would I have one? Go to the forge, they have fire there."

"The _forge_." Thornhill had not forgotten the time he had to stand there, fainting from the heat, while Davies chatted gaily away with some apprentice. "Righto."

Privately, Ernest intended to wander off somewhere else — there being no electric lights or oil lamps here, there was bound to be fire somewhere other than a bloody forge. Back through wide corridors and doors — oh, so many doors — and Thornhill finally found a hearth.

Admittedly, the room was rather gigantic. The fire was right in the middle, the rest of the room being covered in chairs and benches. But it was empty, except for a child in the corner, humming audibly. It wouldn't hear Ernest sneaking a light, would it. He dipped his cigarette swiftly into the flames, put it to his mouth, and drew a breath in. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. How long had it been since he smoked, exactly?

Thornhill wandered out again, and outside, where the stink of tobacco would disperse a little. His stomach slowed its churning. Imladris was beautiful again, a cool breeze ruffling the trees and his hair. He out a hand to it just then — it was nearly down to his tunic collar, now, a wavy mess. Thornhill would have to cut it soon.

"Ai Thonel!" _Damn it_.

"Hullo, Himelon. Do you mind? I'm smoking." Thornhill really was not in the mood to dredge up what little Sindarin or Common Speech he knew.

"What is that?" Himelon's cheeks were flushed, sweat beading upon his forehead and upper lip. He was, apparently, fresh from his work — his silver hair was in a crude plait, the rest being pushed back by a scrap of cloth. He was even wearing his leather apron.

"A cigarette." Thornhill took another draw.

"Segeret?"

The young man sighed. He better switch to Sindarin, as Himelon was not going anywhere anytime soon. "Paper — fire — breathe." Ernest demonstrated, much to the fascination of the apprentice. "You want?"

"Enni, Thonel." Himelon held his hand out. "Ai!"

Thornhill watched with amusement, as Himelon breathed the smoke in tentatively, before immediately coughing and spluttering. "Don't worry, Himelon. Bound to happen the first time." Just then, Himelon was joined by two other lads. Thornhill recognised them as Aduialion and Iúlchon. Both of them were dark-haired and about a head taller than the man.

Having recovered from his ignominious episode, Himelon proceeded to offer the still-smoking cigarette to his friends. Needless to say, there was much hacking and many streaming eyes, until it was passed back to Thornhill's hands. He laughed.

"Thonel, does that not kill you? Mortals die of everything — does that not kill you?"

Ernest did not know the Sindarin word for death. He made a wild guess that Aduialion meant injure, or make ill. "No. Toch-emmas and bullets kill —" he meant injure, but didn't have the word — "us."

"What is tac-emma and búlet?"

"I no have — words."

"I understand, Thonel — Iúlchon! Are you alright?" For the young ellon had taken himself to a nearby bush to empty the contents of his stomach. The cigarette smoke had indeed been too much for him. He returned a few moments later, still slightly green around the corners, but otherwise whole.

"Goheno nin, Thonel. Your _segeret_ is not what I am accustomed to breathing." Iúlchon laughed uncomfortably, immediately regretting it — he clamped his mouth shut and said no more.

Eventually, the three apprentices tired of Thornhill, who became increasingly taciturn as the conversation whiled along. He retired thankfully, meandering back to the giant room with the hearth and the humming child to finish off the remains of his cigarette.

* * *

There was an important arrival that night, as far as Thornhill could tell. And they came from far away. An edhellen, of course. He had brushed past them, as they were on their way to their room — the elf's surcoat smelled salty and fresh. He reminded Ernest of Blackpool Pier.

There was talk. Davies, the more fluent in Sindarin of the two — though he was quite short of conversing with ease — picked up something about evil in the south, evil in the east. "It's like one of those silly novels, where a young man such as you goes a-swashbuckling, fighting pirates and spies, and gets up to all sorts of gallantry," supposed Davies. "Both of us know that's lies, anyhow."

"Well — yes, in a way." The two men set about to brooding, a particularly favourite pastime lately. It wasn't as if they had anything more productive to do.

All of a sudden, Thornhill spoke up. "You didn't _really_ think the Boche were evil, did you? Not like — the evil that these edhellen are talking about?"

"I don't know, Ernest. When they send over those shells, making our men go mad, and killing our chums, it's hard not to hate them a _little_."

"I met a Boche once. Two Christmases ago — he gave me cigarettes. Decent chap. Funny, next day we were shooting each other to pieces again."

"I heard of that. They did it everywhere. _I_ was in the sergeants' mess at Eat-apples, enjoying a long asked-for glass of whisky."

"Hm." They sat on opposite sides of Davies' bed, each with his back to the other. Their dinner had been excellent fare — in Imladris, everybody was fed well. A long walk into the woods at the haven's edge would have been ideal, but the new arrival, and the buzz of gossip, had left them overwhelmed. Davies' room was excellent if one wanted some solitude.

A narrow beam of moonlight escaped the drapes. Ernest Thornhill and Bertie Davies were silent, having nothing else better to say.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I suppose Elrond would have fun examining 1902 Pattern Service dress tunics, but, sadly, he has other matters that concern him. As he said, he just looked at them as a bit of respite from worrying about the Ring and how to get rid of it. He saw the men to give it back, the considerate elf-lord.

I do not endorse smoking with this chapter. But soldiers did like to smoke during the Great War — no doubt due to the relaxing effect it had on their nerves — and Thornhill is among them. The elves, I assume, are not impressed.

I'm unsure about how to write the speech of the Elves — especially Elrond, Glorfindel and those who've been around a long time. I do try and emulate Tolkien's musical diction but I'm still unsatisfied. Rereading the books does help a little. Unsolicited advice appreciated, for the most part.

Sindarin translations:

Diheno nin. _Forgive me. (when the one at fault metaphorically places himself below the forgiver)_

Ai! _A general exclamation, used to greet, and in shock, pain or surprise._

Enni. Please.

Sindarin names:

Iúlchon - Embers brother

Glindir - Gleam/ glint (in the eyes) man

 _TMI Fairy_ \- All officers had to go through some sort of a commissioning course at Sandhurst, whether they volunteered or did it for a career. A war letter from 2Plnd Lt. Wilbert Spencer, a volunteer in 1914, described briefly said officer's experience at the academy (not sure whether it _was_ an academy then). Yes, Thornhill was one of many public school boys who stopped their careers as 'skipper of rugger' and 'prefect' to join the war effort.

Thank you to everybody else who reviewed. Keep 'em coming, chums — queries and critique still appreciated.

 **A.B.C.**


	7. In Which Things Pick Up a Little

"They're all so _small._ Look, Ernest." It was the fifty-sixth time that week that Davies had marvelled at the short stature of the most recent batch of arrivals. Thornhill, unfortunately, could not help but count.

"Yes, half our height. You're only five feet and five yourself, Bertie. Buck up — it's time for lunch."

As was their wont, Thornhill and Davies placed themselves somewhere inconspicuous on a long table. The short men, thankfully for Thornhill, sat themselves on another table far from Davies' view. But Davies had started about their beards, now. "Ernest! How on earth do they get food into their mouths? You can't even see them!"

"I'm sure they can find their own mouths, Bertie."

" _I_ couldn't. Somebody had better recommend them a good barber."

"There are no barbers here."

"I wouldn't let them into the Army, at any rate. They're too _small_. My little Andrew, bless him, he could top them easily — once he grows a little."

"My word Bertie, shut up, I tell you! And that's an order," he added, as his friend made motion to speak again. "We're still in the Army."

"When _you_ want."

But an excellent roast put away their troubles for the time being. Elves were very conversational sometimes, and when they weren't singing or reciting poetry, they often talked. Very much. Bertie, with his improving Sindarin, liked to practise his language with the Elves around him, and so Thornhill ate, with snatches of conversation floating above his head.

* * *

Davies turned swiftly, hiding a cigarette behind his back. "A Thonel! Come to smoke on the porch, have we?"

"Don't call me Thonel. _You've_ stolen one of my cigarettes, then — yes, I can see the smoke. Don't lie to me, you little devil."

"You only had two left. Waste not, want not, that's what my mother told me."

"I can smoke two cigarettes in twenty minutes."

"Well, anyhow, you had better share with me." Davies took a drag, taking care to blow a ring or two in his companion's direction. " _I_ didn't bring anything along. And we ought to smoke these up — before, you know, Lord Elrond decides to try anything."

"Mister Elrond is busy," replied Thornhill airily. "All these new arrivals? They're frightfully important. This Erestor chap — he walks around the corridors an awful lot, and, him being an advisor or counsellor of some sort, I can _smell_ how important affairs are these days."

"Lor', aren't you a far-seeing young man."

"What I am trying to say is, you needn't steal my cigarettes." Without further ado, the young officer strode to the railing and blew smoke at the distant mountains for a long, long time. The afternoon sun turned all he could see of Imladris golden. The tobacco smoke trailed away immediately, in great grey fingers smelling of — well, tobacco.

Everything was peaceful again. It was actually very ridiculous, how peaceful things were. Around five weeks ago, it would have made Davies' throat ache, but he was used to the tranquility now. Only in his dreams did he revisit the _whoosh-boom_ of the shells and the _takka-takka-tak_ of the machine guns, and — more rarely — the fresh faces and clumsy limbs of new recruits. Those dreams rarely troubled him. He always woke up, good as new, no matter how badly shrapnel had mauled his arm or leg.

For some peculiar reason, an area of Imladris — or near it — caught Davies' eye. Yes, it was that river, where he and Thornhill had washed their clothes until a girl had offered them a tub and washboard during the second week. In contrast to Imladris itself, the river had been loud and flowed swiftly. Now, however, it was beyond loud and swift. Even from that balcony, he could see white-crested waves. Funny thing, in sun such as this.

"Look at this, Ernest."

"I'm sorry, Bertie, what's that?"

"Look at the river. It's boiling over."

"Is it, now? Or is this a ploy to steal my cigarette?"

"Look, will you, damn it! That river's going mad! And it isn't even raining!"

Thornhill looked obligingly. The water was indeed boiling, and had now formed some strange shapes that looked a little like rearing horses. "Our land-mines have done better."

* * *

Silevel had, since the first meeting, ceased to intimidate Thornhill. He learnt reasonably fast, and was beginning to speak in coherent sentences. That would be helpful, should those sentences not be charming specimens such as _I see an Orc_ and _I am drinking a good ale_. At least he knew please, thank you, help, hello and goodbye — those would be most useful in a camp full of men.

Today, however, Silevel sat him down and explained sweetly that perhaps he'd like a challenge. Did he know about what happened yesterday? There was much speculation about the exact details of the exciting event, as it was kept rather hush-hush except to those who had experienced it, and Lord Elrond, of course.

And so, she began to narrate a short tale — in Common Speech — about the gossip she had heard concerning yesterday's events. This is what Ernest Thornhill understood:

"Half-a-pint... hit with sword... halflings... him... killed."

Assuming he heard correctly, Thornhill pressed his hand to his mouth, suppressing violent giggles. News of that sort must have been passed around by drunks, for nobody _could_ kill a half-pint of ale with a sword. After he had relayed this to his teacher, she sighed.

"It is not only your fault," she explained in her mothertongue, "but mine also. I know not very much of the Westron, and I am able to teach you only so much. You must find one of us who speaks the Common Speech fluently, in the stead of one such as myself."

Thornhill did not know what to say. He had taken rather a liking to this woman, who always smiled when she saw him and made sure to attempt a little conversation. And she _was_ a very handsome lady. "You are good. No, don't stop."

"I cannot teach you much further, Thonel."

"But you are good. You —"

"— teach?"

"You teach good. Ni 'lassui, Silevel."

"It has been a pleasure, Thonel. And perhaps I will be able to tell you the news another way."

"Thank you," Thornhill added — in English. Why he had given thanks twice was beyond him. And so, it was back to Davies' room to tell him about the half-pint of ale who had been killed with a sword with halflings.

As Thornhill jogged back up the corridor, Silevel rolled the strange words around her mouth. "Thanciú."

* * *

Davies was not in his room. Nor was he in the forge, surprisingly. He was in that large room with the hearth at the centre, in which a large bonfire was always burning. Writing on a piece of parchment again.

"Hullo, Bertie!" Thornhill strode in and took a seat. There was nobody else in the room — surprising, considering that it was so large and full of places to sit.

"Why, good afternoon. I hope you don't mind me writing — I just wanted to — er — _record_ some of our adventures, or something."

"Should anybody want to hear about them. Some adventure, living here, where you can't hear anything but the birds in the trees and the calming breeze, sometimes."

"Bloody annoying, these pens. Always preferred a pencil, myself. So, my lad! — what news?"

"Well, yesterday — Silevel told me that half a pint of beer got killed by a sword."

"She told you yesterday?"

"It happened yesterday. I say, the one who conjured that up must have been frightfully drunk."

"Ah, the joys of a good mug of blotto. Wouldn't mind one myself, if they had blotto here. Did she tell you anything about the boiling river?"

"If she did, I couldn't understand." Thornhill began to doubt that he had actually understood anything Silevel had told him. "You had better ask Erestor, or somebody important."

"That's like asking Haig why he invented the Big Push in the first place. I most certainly will not!" Davies returned to The Adventures of 2nd Lieutenant Thornhill and Myself, half-shielding it with his hand. "Do you mind? This is a private matter."

"Haven't we shared these adventures to this point?"

"This is a private matter, Ernest." Davies turned away, taking his parchment with him. "But dead half-pint's a bloody scream. I must tell the boys at the forge."

Thornhill thought he could see a hastily scribbled date as his companion whisked the paper away. _Half a pint of ale killed by halflings and swords. Bloody hell._

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 _Blotto_ was Edwardian slang for intoxication, but during WWI, it became a word for any kind of strong liquor. It crops up in the third chapter also.

The half-pint of beer killed by a sword (notice the inconsistency of the tale — gossip tends to end up like that) is indeed Frodo incapacitated by the Morgul blade. Thankfully, not killed, as Thornhill heard. Silevel is that bad at conversational Westron. I thought that placing them into this time-frame would keep the plot nice and familiar.

Again, our soldiers' smoking break includes a lovely view of the Elrond-induced flood of the Bruinen. But, sadly for them, and happily for their lungs, they have no more cigarettes to smoke.

Davies is beginning to be more interested about the world around him, playing things by ear, unlike Thornhill, who seems to be bent on learning the language and getting things right. Do tell me if any of them lack personality: I, myself, am beginning to fear that Thornhill is becoming a bit one-dimensional, but I don't know where.

Translations:

 _Ni 'lassui._ Thank you.

theimpardisat221b - See above. They are at that classic stage of the story, where the members of the Council of Elrond begin to arrive at Rivendell and Frodo's drama is immense. But there is to be no wanton joining of the Council, nor an impromptu pop-along with the Fellowship. Don't be afraid!

Gollykins - Hmm, I don't think they'd have any money on them, really. I'll have to look into that, as I'm not sure whether the soldiers would have had any money on them. For now, they are broke as socks.

abesntees - Yes, I was considering that. See, modern people falling into Middle-Earth would have a horrible time, due to our privilege of having the internet, proper plumbing, and junk food.

But these soldiers spent the last two years in mud under heavy fire (not all the time, though. Leave and time in France behind the lines must have been alright!), and after that horror, Imladris' peace and lack of mud must have been welcome. And they've been away from home almost constantly since 1914, as well. And Mr. Thornhill went to boarding school also. But, there will be eventual repercussions. Not meaning to spoil much (there isn't much to spoil — this story is played by ear) but PTSD is one of them.

Thank you to the rest of my reviewers. In advance, anyone who flames my story and makes completely unfounded criticism (criticism that I can't use at all, or criticism that is blatantly untrue) is going to have their review ignored. But flames that I can actually use are fine. Sort of.

Toodle-pip,

 **A.B.C.**


	8. High Jinks With Himelon

Thornhill was disappointed to find that his favourite balcony was in use. Peaceful mornings like this were bloody boring, but he had better appreciate it before a spear or a dagger appeared in mid-air, taking him back to France. He could hear voices jabbering in Common Speech as he passed by, but there were no words that he could properly recognise. Or perhaps, it was the morning.

Elves didn't have coffee, or tea. At least France had petrol tea.

There were several new additions to Elrond's 'household', as the edhellen called it, and a few were men. Humans. Thornhill would have been relieved, had they not all been taller (perhaps not as tall as the Elves) than Davies and himself. One had arrived early that morning, haggard and extremely smelly. Thornhill was beginning to notice these things, now. Astounding what a return to nightly baths could do.

The other guests were like the Dwarves — small, but apparently able to shave, for none of them had beards of any kind. They wore brightly coloured waistcoats and no shoes. And their feet were large and hairy. Repulsively so, in fact.

Thornhill's less hairy feet took him outside, for a wander around. Really, Imladris was getting boring. He could not yet read a single word from the books in the library, Silevel seemingly having neglected to teach him how to write. Himelon and his chums only amused Ernest for a little while. There were no outings to make, and, finally, a tunic and leggings were not the most practical thing to wear, should he wish to scale a few trees in the woods nearby.

Ernest almost wished that Captain Wakefield would come and tell him _Thornhill, go inspect your rifles_ or something like that. If only he could put on a shirt and trousers! Oh, yes, he had his battledress. That he would wash, then he would don the trousers and undershirt, and go for a little walk in the woods and climb some trees — just like he did when he was fourteen.

Making his way back to his room, however, Thornhill was waylaid by a silver-haired young man that looked suspiciously like his friend Himelon. _Bloody hell, not now_. "Béti has told me you are very bored, Thonel."

"I am not bored?"

"You appear so. Perhaps you and your friend may like to help me at the forge — my master is occupied with an important task, and has taken some of his apprentices to help him. Alas, I am not among them." Himelon laughed.

"I — er —" Davies stood behind the ellon, nodding frantically. "Yes, I will." Thornhill made sure to shoot an especially poisonous glare at Davies as they made their way.

* * *

The smithy seemed emptier than usual as the three entered, but that was simply an illusion. In fact, several blacksmiths stood at a table in the corner, talking animatedly, while a group of about six or seven apprentices crowded around them. One of the blacksmiths held up something that glinted in reflection of the fire. Davies winced.

"What are they doing there?"

"I have not been told. It is a very important matter, and a secret one also — so my master told me. I am to complete a hunting knife that I began to fashion two days ago, while he is busy. Speak quietly, mellyn." Himelon dropped his voice to a half-whisper, glancing nervously at the group of Elves in the corner.

"Now, Himelon. We are your — er —"

"— apprentices —"

"Yes, apprentices — what must we do?"

"You may hold my workpiece over the fire, if your hands are swift. Thonel, you may cool it in the water," Himelon replied, pointing to a deep barrel near his feet. He then rummaged around on another table, until he found a piece of curved metal. Himelon also took a pair of long iron tongs, which he handed to Davies. "Grasp the workpiece inside these, and hold it into the fire until it is pliable."

The first few rounds went as close to clockwork as they could possibly go — aside from a few fumbles, the men had a superb case of beginner's luck. But after a while, Thornhill found a space in between two apprentices at the corner table, where a hand rapidly drew upon a piece of parchment. This seemed to interest him more that Himelon's hunting knife, for he took every chance he could to stare intently at the work-hardened hand flying across the parchment.

Davies saw that Ernest immersed the knife a few seconds too long, every time he was handed the great pair of tongs, and he suggested that they reverse duties. Dipping metal in water is a mindless, mechanical task, however, and Davies decided he would try a few bangs upon the knife himself. "Forgive me, Himelon, but may I try?"

"It would not be wise, Béti — you are no blacksmith. I am loath to let you maim yourself, should you perchance miss your mark upon the workpiece."

"I have good — sight, I do not miss." He, after all, fired rifles for a living. Himelon reluctantly handed Davies the hammer — which was heavy, but not overly so — and the man began to hit the metal. Although each blow gave a satisfying _whang_ , they landed in places where they perhaps were not meant to land. Himelon set to straightening the results immediately.

Thornhill tried also. His endeavour was cut short, however, as he held the workpiece steady with one hand. Or, more correctly, one hand hovered over the knife, as if its presence would hold it still. Davies had used two hands upon the hammer, and had found its lifting effort at worst. The hammer, for Thornhill, was a deadweight held one-handedly.

A massive heave prompted the hammer to fall unceremoniously upon the still-steaming metal, trapping his left hand in between.

"Bertie — Himelon — my hand —" He panted with the pain, good hand and lips trembling. "Help me — oh, _bloody hell_! It hurts — get it _off_ —"

Disabled by paroxysms of laughter, Davies was unable to move. All other Elves in that corner of the smithy stared at hapless Thornhill swearing loudly, as sweat poured down his face. It was Himelon who spoke. "You must take him to a healer, quickly." Prising the hammer off Ernest's hand, he rushed the two men out of the forge.

* * *

Davies was chortling yet as they left the infirmary. "You could have done it with two hands, Ernest, you know!"

"I know well enough, Bertie." Thornhill, on the other hand, was nursing a bandaged hand, tight-lipped.

"Bloody hell, when you first _hit_ it! Your face was a bloody scream!"

"I do not find it amusing in the least, so shut your trap, I say."

The healer Osgariel had been the one to examine the doomed hand, pronouncing it broken and burned badly upon the palm. She had prescribed a salve for the burn and no use of the extremity itself until the break was healed, and Ernest's visage had been a sour one as she sent them off.

Now, after a particularly stinging comment, Davies left Thornhill at the library to "read off your funk, and come back to Father when you have stopped sulking."

Needless to say, the twenty-year-old bristled at such condescension. He nevertheless spent the best part of an hour skulking about the shelves, cradling his left hand, and staring at the spines of tomes that he could not, as of yet, read.

* * *

Finding Himelon in order to report upon Thornhill's injury was no mean task — the ellon seemed to have deliberately hidden himself where Davies would not be able to find him. Iúlchon, however, was sat at a table by the wall during the midday meal.

The raised table at the end of the hall was unoccupied, Lord Elrond and his Guests of Honour evidently being engaged elsewhere. His daughter, usually sat there with them, currently presided at the end of one of the lower tables instead. A good thing — for Bertie could not bring himself to look at the lady, who was so dazzlingly beautiful he feared for his Gertrude.

"I can not find Himelon — tell him Thonel is well?"

"He will be relieved to hear so. Himelon was uneasy when you left — he tells me he is at fault."

"Tell him it is not. Thonel is not wise to hit with one hand."

"So he seemed, as Himelon told the tale. Ai, edain." Iúlchon chuckled a little, taking a bite of bread. Just then, Thornhill appeared, placing himself on Davies' other side. He looked displeased yet, and immediately helped himself to some bread and butter.

"Hullo, then! Feeling better, are we?" Thornhill seemed to be taking advantage of a full mouth, for he did not answer. "Leave him, Iú — you'll-cawn, he is angry."

"As would I be. A broken hand is not to be taken lightly." Within the next minute, Iúlchon was engaged in a furious debate with a man next to him, about whether bows or spears were best used for hunting wild boar. The dining hall seemed rowdier indeed without Elrond, whose presence seemed to mute voices imperceptibly.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

'Shut your trap' may be anachronistic, I'm not sure whether Edwardian/wartime toffs used this phrase to say _shut the flip up!_

Tea and other liquid vittles were often sent to the front line from the kitchens in billycans, or old petrol cans. Because the comfort of soldiers was (and still is) not a priority, they didn't bother to clean out the excess. Tea and stew often had an unctuous sheen of old fuel on the top, hence 'petrol tea'.

I deliberated a bit over how to get Thornhill's injury to work. Originally I was going to settle for a nasty burn, but I suppose getting hit with your own hammer while you're at it provides the most comedic effect.

For this chapter to make sense, Narsil must have been broken into several (not just in half) pieces. However, according to the Internet, a sword broken in half would take only a few hours to reforge. But Narsil will have 7 stars and lots of runes painstakingly traced upon it once it is reforged, adding to the workload. Still about 12 hours at most.

To increase the work time, and therefore make the reforging more complicated, the sword must be pretty badly broken. I don't know whether it's physically possible. But then, Sauron is a Maia. He can shatter swords if and when he damn well wants. Add this to planning time, as well as explaining to the apprentices, and the time it takes for the new sword to cool and harden completely, I think it should take a few weeks. Considering that the smiths may have other projects to work on also.

I feel that the reforging of Elendil's old sword would be a good opportunity to teach the best apprentices a thing or two about really good handicraft, and how to create a new sword out of one seemingly beyond repair. After all, I hear that Celebrimbor was one of the smiths of Narsil. I will have none of this poo about a lone smith epically _whang-bang_ ing future Andúril to foreboding music by Howard Shore.

 _TMI Fairy_ \- 5' 10" adjusted to 5' 5". Thank you for reminding me.

 _Certh_ \- Grammar issue corrected. On another note, many thanks for the intensive reviewing. I do hope you come back for more.

 _okeydokeyworld_ \- This is the second call-out I've had for my lack of portrayal of culture shock. I may have to look back and edit the story more intensively once I've finished uploading, but I have my reasons for not showing as much shock and horror at mediaeval Middle-Earth — see my reply to _absentees_ in the A.N. of the previous chapter. I do see areas where perhaps my OCs react less strongly towards cultural differences than is realistic. Do please continue reading, though, it's a pleasure to be reviewed.

Again, thanks to those who had no queries or criticism to respond to. I notice you too!

Namaarie, (my greatest apologies for the use of Grelvish — it won't happen again)

 **A.B.C.**


	9. Tobacco and Halflings

The trees of Imladris were shedding their leaves fast. Green had turned to yellow, yellow to gold, and gold to various shades of orange, red and brown, which littered the ground of the dwelling, and flew in through the windows. Nights were cooler, now, and the resulting mornings were crisp and soaked in dew. No flying spear or sword had yet arrived to facilitate the return of Ernest Thornhill and Albert Davies to the front line in France, and for that they were thankful. In fact, they had both stopped thinking about it altogether.

The day was waning, and the sky was purpling at the edges in a way reminiscent of the men's first night in Arda. _Already? It's barely the afternoon! We're nowhere near France, or Blighty, or anywhere. It could be any time, sir_.

A queer smell was wafting down the gallery to where Davies sat, writing, in an alcove. It was familiar, yet not quite so. Something he'd smelt before, on his own person. "Tobacco!" he burst out, before he could stop himself. Tobacco? It didn't smell exactly like the plant — slightly earthier. Something _like_ tobacco. Perhaps cigarettes were to be had here, most likely from the men. It was certainly evident that the edhellen disliked tobacco tremendously.

Davies scribbled down the rest of a sentence, tucked the pencil behind his ear and stuffed the parchment into the pocket in his surcoat. He would find these cigarettes and ask for some. Perhaps it was even Ernest — most likely the young lad had some hidden away, where Davies could not find them.

His nose took him to a bedroom that was not his comrade's, just off the gallery. The door was cracked open, and through said crack he saw four men, heads topped by curly mops. One head, the one whose hair was slightly fairer than the others, had a face which was likewise older-looking. All sucked on the stems of pipes.

Davies knocked. Perhaps _mae govannen_ would not be appropriate here, yet he did not know their names. Perhaps they knew English. "Hullo — er —" The door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Looking down sharply, Davies saw a fresh-faced youth with a child's body and feet as hairy as they came. Those halfling people. "Er — do you speak English?"

The small man said something confusedly. Davies recognised the harsher sounds of the Common Speech, the language Thornhill was learning. He knew _thank you_ and _ale_. _Where_ _is_ _that_ _bloody_ _boy_?

"I do not speak the Westron," he tried, should any of the halflings know Sindarin. Surprisingly, one did. That was the older halfling, who took the pipe (which was so long as to reach his feet) from his mouth, and replied.

"I can speak a little of the Elven-tongue. What business do you have here?"

"I — er — I wanted _segerets_ ," Davies mumbled lamely. "But that is alright. I leave you now." The older halfling relayed that to the others, who muttered amongst themselves, filling the room with acrid smoke. As Davies turned to leave, somebody tapped him at the small of his back. Davies turned again to see the halfling that had opened the door earlier, grinning cautiously.

"Join us?" translated the older halfling, before saying something in his language to the other.

"No — thank you, I will leave." He backed out of the door again, shutting it as he went. The halflings he could hear muttering perplexedly, as Davies walked off, lamenting the lack of available cigarettes. The smell of tobacco hounded him until he reached the stairs to Lord Elrond's quarters, whereafter it clung sadly to his surcoat.

As soon as he had found another alcove, Davies settled against the wall to re-read what he had written. Unfolding the crumpled parchment and taking up his pencil, he raised the letter.

 _Dearest Gertrude and children,_

 _I cannot send my letter yet. I don't know where Imladris is but it is very far from Blighty. I'll try to send it as soon as I can._

 _Lots of people have arrived here lately. It is for a very important matter that the officer and I have no part in. You will laugh if you see me now, I am dressed in and have dressed in for weeks a tunic and robes. Gertrude, it is like the Medeeval times. Eva, Andrew, I cannot tell you what the Medeeval times are but you will learn about them in school when the time comes. I must wash and wring my clothes by hand, there is no mangle to dry them with. But the ethellen-soap is wonderfully soft, unlike the carbolic at home._

 _It is now autumn here and the views are lovely. There are no children as far as I can see who can play in the leaves. It is nice to see trees with leaves after 2 years of black stumps and tents. I don't miss France one bit but I miss you all as ever._

Davies deliberated for a moment about what else to say. Perhaps he should tell her about Himelon and his other friends. Or had he written that before? _Your ever loving Papa_ , he scribbled down finally, returning the pencil to his ear and the parchment to his surcoat.

Perhaps one of the couriers knew about England. But wait, even Lord Elrond didn't know about England. Perhaps they were all unlearned.

It dawned upon him, however, in a matter of minutes. Instead of walking on to find the courier, he turned back whence he came. The library, surely, had a map.

* * *

Rain was pouring down as Thornhill returned from his tramp in the woods. Ordinarily, Davies would have joined him, but his blacksmith friends had convinced him to stay and join them in the gigantic hearth-room for some singing and poetry. Thornhill did not care for such things, and had gone for his evening walk as was his wont.

The rain had begun in a sudden torrent, and he came back, sopping wet and chilled to the bone. _So this is what the men had to go through_ , he thought bitterly, as he tore off his dripping tunic and wrung his ever-growing hair dry, one-handed, in the washroom. Plastered to his head, despite his best ministrations, it reached to his shoulders — a sore trial for

Thornhill, who ordinarily kept his hair well above the collar. At least long hair was common here in Imladris, where even the men were able to keep theirs in a substantial plait.

Half-naked and shivering slightly, it occurred to the young man that in order to reach his bedroom, he would have to walk back down the halls, most likely attracting the attention of every man there. He sighed and donned his tunic again, biting back a grimace as the wet wool touched his skin.

When he got there, Thornhill's bed was very welcome.

* * *

"Ernest! How was your evening ramble?" Davies burst into his friend's room, to see a disgruntled young man with long, wavy hair and a tightly bandaged hand stripping his bed. "What the hell —"

Thornhill's eyes were puffy, his nose was running, and he looked the very picture of misery. "It rained. I had to run back." He coughed noisily.

"What on earth did you do to your bed?"

"I slept in it, wet."

"Didn't you take a bath?"

"I couldn't get the bathwater. It was raining." Thornhill fumbled for a handkerchief, sneezed into it violently, and wiped his nose. "As you can see, Bertie, I have caught my death."

"Served you right, sleeping wet in your bed like that. Have you no sense, young man?"

Ernest groaned and sneezed again in reply. Davies could not help but laugh at the miserable picture in front of him, but helped him strip the bed nevertheless and suggested some sort of a mustard poultice for his hoarsening throat. _Poor Ernest. Always gets the short end of the stick_.

* * *

Half an hour later, the two men languished in the library, if languishing was perhaps the right word to describe it. Davies searched for maps, while Thornhill sat on a ledge in a dark, musty corner, flicking through an illuminated book with a steaming poultice tied to his throat. The mustard helped little, but the warmth was a comfort and the steam helped to unblock his nose. _Do the edhellen have quinine, now_? he wondered, staring at a drawing of a dark-haired man watching as three ships burst into flames in front of him. The accompanying text on the page opposite had been written in a stiff, well-practised hand, no stem differing in the slightest from the next.

"Ernest!" The call, however quiet, tore apart the silence of the library. In a moment, Davies walked swiftly into view. "Ernest, I need you."

"What for?"

"You speak Common Speech."

"Not much." Thornhill coughed.

"Two of those bloody _periannath_ are in the library, and they want to talk to me. The one who can speak Sindarin isn't there."

"I can't —" Thornhill was cut short by another coughing fit, and Davies took that opportunity to drag him down from the ledge. "Very well, then. But be quiet, for goodness' sakes."

The halflings had seated themselves upon a table, and were discussing a large map enthusiastically. Davies gestured helplessly. "I can't understand a word."

"Oh, alright then, Bertie." Thornhill cleared his throat. "Good morning — I speak not — not large — Common Speech."

One of the halflings snickered at his abysmal grammar and turned. "Good morning. Razanur Tûk, at your service."

Thornhill was taken aback at the last part, the phrase being unknown to him. He stuck his hand out for the halfling to shake. "Ernest Thornhill. Elves — name me Thonel." The halfling, Razanur, reciprocated. At least that gesture was known amongst their folk — the edhellen seemed to content themselves with a smile and a nod. "Man here —" Thornhill gestured to Davies. "He Bertie Davies. Elves name him Béti."

Razanur tapped his companion on the shoulder, and said companion turned. Upon noticing the two men in front of him, he started, before grinning widely. "Kalimac Brandagamba, at your service also. What do you want?"

"Béti want — look at your…" Thornhill gesticulated towards the map. "I am sorry, I —"

"Are you ill?" Kalimac pointed at the poultice wound around Thornhill's neck.

"I — no speak Common Speech."

Kalimac's mouth twitched, and he said something to his neighbour that Thornhill did not quite understand. He caught _stupid_ and _my_ , however. "Bertie," he rasped, "I'm going back to read. My throat hurts me frightfully."

Davies was already bent over the map, deaf to Thornhill's croaking voice. Razanur, however, spoke up. "Where are you going?"

The young man pointed at his throat and assumed a pained expression. "Speak. Hurt. I go read."

In spite of Davies' belated protests, he stalked off back to the ledge, back to the page with the burning boats and the man, who even within the artist's approximations glowed with fierce fire.

* * *

 ** **Author's Note:****

I confess, I have done a craven thing. I've shirked massive conversation with canon characters, due to my qualms about characterising them correctly. Do forgive me, good readers. I lack talent for this fanfiction thing.

Any errors spelling- or grammar-wise within Davies' letter are not my fault. Victorian schooling was only so effective.

Perhaps Davies speaks Sindarin too coherently at this point in time, but my rationale is that being immersed in a world where absolutely nobody speaks English would refine your language skills sharpish. His accent is still pretty awful, though.

I felt a little pretentious looking up Victorian and Edwardian treatments for the common cold. But I suppose Davies must be at least a little helpful, when it comes to suggesting how to make Thornhill's 'suffering' easier. In the end, I settled for a sample from _Aunt Babette's Cookbook_ (1899) which calls for quinine for a sore throat and a mustard footbath, among other things. I adapted the footbath to a poultice around the neck and decided that little else would be done, considering Thornhill has gone through a gangrenous leg and a hand burnt on one side and broken on the other. My source, as ever, is the internet.

The drawing in the book that Thornhill picked up is one of Fëanor watching, as the ships that carried him across the Belegaer are burned. So, yes, Thornhill is reading (or, rather, looking at the pictures of) the Quenta Silmarillion.

Sindarin translations:

Periannath - halflings

Westron names:

Razanur Tûk - Peregrin Took

Kalimac Brandagamba - Meriadoc Brandybuck

No queries or criticism to reply to? My reviewers are sleepy! I jest, but please fill up that review section with lots of — well, reviews. Thank you to those who have done so thus far, and I promise you I won't bite if your bit of honest opinion comes across as a bit mean. I've done the same, my friends.

Good day,

 **A.B.C.**


	10. Learn Me

_It's only a dream. Nothing but a dream._ Davies woke slowly. He could feel the sheets, damp with sweat beneath him. Funny. It was night-time. He could feel the remnants of a dull ache wearing off in his head. _That was where the shrapnel hit me_. A white spectre was moving towards him. Davies lunged out of bed and swung at the spectre. It parried the blow and slapped Davies on the side of the head. _Oh. That's Ernest._ He came fully to himself now. "Sorry."

"That's alright." A pause. "Did you have a nightmare?" Thornhill plopped himself down at the foot of Davies' bed, a thin, pitiful figure in his white nightshirt.

"Well —"

"That's alright. I had a nightmare, too."

"Funny, isn't it. It doesn't bother me, usually. It was unnaturally real tonight."

"How absurd." Slipping down from the bed, Thornhill lay his head on his arms. "I'm tired."

"You must be. What did you dream about, then?"

"My pal — Mathews — Boche bullets went through his head. Bang, one, two, three. Clutched my arm, looked at me and fell down dead. He's likely dead by now, anyhow," he added, sighing heavily.

"Is that why you came."

"Yes. Couldn't stand how lonely it was, in my room. Mo—" He stopped himself. "What did _you_ dream?"

"The usual. I gave a recruit a dressing-down for being a silly ass, he threw a punch at me, and I drowned in trench-mud as a Minny exploded over me. The shrapnel flew straight at my head. Lor', did it hurt. Head still aches thinking about it."

"Did anybody — _die_?"

" _I_ died. Then I woke up." Davies began to strip the sheet off his bed. "Make yourself comfortable. I shan't be going back to sleep for some time. Too — shaken up, I suppose. Go on — get in," he said, as Thornhill hesitated. "I've told you, I'm not sleeping. I'll use your bed when I do."

"Thanks awfully, Bertie. I'm sorry for having bothered you."

"You oughtn't to be sorry. Here, I'll — I'll tuck you in, if you like."

"I'm alright, thanks." Thornhill snorted. "G'night. Sleep well — when you do."

Closing the door softly behind him, Davies padded to his comrade's room. Even in the dark, he could see that everything was meticulously organised, so that even his hose were crossed neatly over the chair that held them. Davies opened the curtains.

The moon was obscured by a cloud.

* * *

"Erestor wishes that I return this to you." A slim, white ellon in a dark blue surcoat showed Davies and Thornhill a revolver in its holster, along with five rounds. "Alas, matters were too pressing to return it earlier."

"Thank you. Forgive me, but —" Davies squinted at the man's face. "— I know you."

"Do you?"

"Yes, you are — I believe — Thin-door, I am right?"

"Indeed. My sister named me Thindor, because of my pale visage."

Davies smiled a little. "It is good to see you again. Thank you." He motioned to take the revolver.

However, as his hand hovered above it, Thornhill snatched it away — almost possessively. There was no change to his face, save for one nervous twitch of his eye. "Thank you, Thindor," Thornhill muttered, and turned upon his heel to walk away. Thindor smiled and nodded at the two, thinking nothing of it, and left.

"Now you can go deer-hunting," Davies snickered, jogging to keep up with Thornhill's unnaturally quick strides. Thornhill did not reply to Davies' light jibes, which eventually came to a stop as the young man turned viciously, shouting, "I say, leave me _alone_ , won't you!"

There was an elf passing them by, and he started as Thornhill made his vehement retort. He said something in the Common Speech that did not include the words _thank you_ or _ale_ once Davies' afflicted friend had stormed down the corridor, out of earshot.

"Ú-bedin annúnaid, ach bedin edhellen."

A smile spread across the elf's face. "Forgive me — I did not know you were an elf-friend. It is strange that you do not know the Common Speech."

"I am not an elf-friend. I come here and I do not know all Arda tongues. I hear edhellen speak. I learn by them."

"Indeed? Where do you hail from?"

"England."

"Íngland? Is that a land in the north?"

"It is —" Davies deliberated, distracted by the fact that this elf's golden hair reached only to his shoulders, unlike the rest of the edhellen he had the pleasure to meet. "It is — not of Arda. I come from — other world."

"You are quite unlike the edain I have seen." The elf laughed merrily. "For one thing, you are smaller. What is your name, may I ask?"

"The edhellen in this place, they call me Béti."

"That is a queer name indeed — what does it mean?" By this time, man and elf were beginning to make their way down the corridor.

"Mean?"

"What were you named for?"

"My — er — I do not know. Forgive me. In my land, our names do not — er —"

"That I see. You must forgive me yourself, for I must leave now to break my fast — unless you are going this way also?"

"No. I ask you one thing until — I mean, before you go?"

"What will you ask me?" The elf grinned for the third time in five minutes, as though he were playing some sort of game. It was infuriatingly contagious, and Davies found his lips twitching upwards also.

"What is your name?"

"My father-name, or my mother-name?"

" _Bloody hell_ ," swore Davies in an undertone, before replying. "Both?"

"Thranduilion Legolas." Thranduilion Legolas smiled once more at Davies, before disappearing into the dining-hall. The latter shook his head.

"He's too bloody _happy_!"

* * *

Thornhill fiddled with his revolver, aching a little at the familiar feeling of his hand closing tightly around the grip. His first shot with this thing had been at the range at Sandhurst, in the company of many other officer trainees, all rather excited at the prospect of shooting a gun. Quite a few for the first time, actually.

The ones who had gone hunting before joining up, Thornhill had expected to be called out for extra training — that was, after all, what his instructor had told those who had been in an OTC to do during drill practice. "Gentlemen! All of you who have been in a school cadet corps, fall in for extra parade." **1** Thornhill, then eighteen and fresh from boarding-school, had been rather chagrined to find this meant him as well.

Now, however, drill was no use. It had been no use in France, and here, nobody even knew drill existed. And his revolver was in his hand again. Useless, like drill. Suddenly, Thornhill couldn't bear to look at the handgun any longer — he threw it almost disgustedly onto a chair and left his bedroom.

But where to go? He had lost Bertie, and speaking to the Elves was too much of an effort. Perhaps he could look at pictures in the library again. _But I want to read. Why can't I read yet?_

* * *

"Hail and well met, Thonel. What brings you here this morning?"

"Please — you teach me reading?"

Silevel sighed a little. "Thonel, I cannot read or write the Common Speech. I have learned using my ears, as you have."

"No, no — read edhellen."

"Then I may be able to help you in your endeavours. I am busy at this moment —" Silevel indicated a black woolen kirtle she was mending "— but I shall be able to teach you soon."

"I wait, you finish. I must — er —" Thornhill tried to think of the Sindarin word for _mend_ or _sew_ , but found none. He mimed passing a needle and thread through some cloth. "Also."

"Bring your mending then. Perhaps I can tell you a little about our letters."

Thornhill doubted he would understand much of Silevel's lecture, but rushed off to find his socks nevertheless. He had worn the same pair of socks on duty for a frightfully long time, and they were getting rather worn about the heels. The fact that Lord Elrond, in his keeping of the 'strange garments', had apparently picked about with a loose thread or two had not helped. It would do the socks good to darn them.

A lent bone needle and a ball of yarn later, the young man was squinting intently at his work, trying his best to listen to Silevel's musical voice and discern the words he knew at the same time. Unfortunately, that made up of about an eighth of what the elven lady was talking about, and the conversation turned one-sided quickly.

Eventually, however, Thornhill's neck began to ache and his eyes to swim, and he stuck the needle into his sock. "Is hard work, not?"

"You will become used to it in time. Indeed, you will find that sewing leaves you time to think of other things." Silevel sat, fingers deftly whipping a seam together with tiny, even stitches. She did not seem to find it strange at all that a man was here, mending his own clothes, during peacetime.

"Men do this here?"

"What we tear, we mend again, unless the garment is destroyed beyond repair. The rips in our hose do not discern between ellyn and ellith, Thonel." Her lips curved upwards.

"Not the same, my place. Women — er, sew, men work."

"So it is in many of the lands of the edain. Now, Thonel, do you wish to learn to write, or not?"

"Later, perhaps. Sew, hard work." Thornhill laughed at his incompetence. Silevel joined in.

* * *

That night, sitting in the library with a child's letter-book, Thornhill cursed himself for his stupidity. Yes, he wanted to learn how to read and write. But he also wanted to learn more Westron, and he had failed to find another teacher thus far. Thornhill didn't dare to ask Lord Elrond, or his advisor Erestor, for that matter. Perhaps one Elrond's other counsellors — Thindor among them — would be willing to teach him. _Damn it. School again._

He looked again at the little cloth-bound book, trying to remember each sound the stately letters made. Thornhill knew the first row by heart already: a long stem pointing downwards with one curl was _t_ , the same with a line under the curl was _p_ , and the mirror images of the previous two were _k_ and _qu_ respectively. It was a system based on sounds, not individual letters, and the vowels were written in a different way to the consonant sounds. Silevel had not told him how yet.

Just then, a rustling of a surcoat told Thornhill that somebody else had joined him at the small table. Neglecting to look up, he heard the crackling of parchment, and then the _scratch-scratch_ of a goose-feather quill. Then, "Hullo, Ernest. Learning our letters, now?"

" _Writing_ a letter, now, are we?"

"Er — perhaps. Anyhow, d'you mind if I learn with you? I've been wanting to read the names of places on these maps for a little while."

"You've never asked me that before, Bertie."

"May I?"

"Of course. It's awfully hard, though. Not like English."

And so, the two men bent over the book bound in green, and agonised over the _tîw_ together. They did not learn much, but the epistle to a distant family and the old revolver were forgotten that evening.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Sindarin translations

Ú-bedin annúnaid, ach bedin edhellen. _I don't speak the Common Speech but I speak Elvish._ (Many thanks to Certh, who kindly corrected this for me.)

Ellon/ellyn - male elf/elves

Elleth/ellith - female elf/elves

Edain - men

Tîw - Elvish letters. Sindarin for the tengwar.

The source of aforementioned phrases is Merin Essi ar Quenteli, as ever.

 **1** Quote adapted from Captain Haig-Brown: "...the Instructors at Sandhurst… used to say: 'Now all of those who have been in a school cadet corps fall in here for extra parade!' [...]" This was sourced in turn from a note off the war letters of Wilbert Spencer, on the internet. OTC is short for Officer Training Corps. School cadet organisations were scorned by the drill sergeants at the Royal Military Academy, due to the shoddy quality of the drill taught.

My Legolas has the ubiquitous grey eyes that all elves have, regardless of race, and blond hair. Not à la Orlando Bloom, however, as you probably have read. From now on, my headcanon is that Mirkwood elves wear their hair shorter than those in Imladris, for practicality reasons.

TolkienScribe - How the men and elves communicated at first was by talking and using some sort of primitive sign language to show what they meant. No, the men don't really get what they are saying, but they sort of understand their hand gestures and are able to deduce from there. I simply describe the gestures sparingly as it is too much effort, and would moreover bore the readers. Thanks for asking!

A thank you to my other reviewers also for their kind words. As you may have noticed, my PMs are now on, and I may answer queries via those from now on. It depends.

 **A.B.C.**


	11. Winter Coming

_**Brief note:**_ _For those of you who don't know, September means that Real Life is going to kick me in the derrière. A safe range for updates is from once a fortnight to once a month._ _ **~ABC**_

* * *

"Why, for Lord's sake, are you bringing me out _here_?"

"No motor-cars, no trains, and no omnibuses. If we want to go away from here, you must learn to ride."

It was a sullen, mucky morning. Half of Lord Elrond's household slept yet, and the sun had a good hour or two before it would show its face. Fog fingered down from the mountains, wreathing Imladris and impairing the visibility of even the Elves, who were famed for their exceptionally keen eyes.

Despite this, Ernest Thornhill was leading his friend determinedly to the stables, heeding not his complaints. They had not found out exactly where the stables were, but Davies knew exactly where they were as soon as he sniffed the air. "These horses smell something awful. Must you ask somebody to teach us to ride? And who on earth said something about going away from here?"

Thornhill smiled — a tad smugly, perhaps. "Father taught me to play polo when I was fifteen, during the hols. _I'll_ be teaching you, sergeant."

"Oh." They had now reached the stables, where a woman with glossy black hair tied into a knot at the back of her head was tending to one of the horses. She looked up as they entered, and Thornhill saw that her cheeks were pink and her eyes twinkling. "You speak a strange tongue. What brings you to the stables so early, edain?"

"He is teaching me to ride the — er — animal. Animal. What is it." Davies flapped his hands about in the air, trying to find the word.

"The horse?"

"Yes, he teach me to ride the horse."

"You do not know how to ride?"

"I —" But he was interrupted by an impatient _I say, hurry_ up _!_ from Thornhill, and he hurried accordingly. After nearly tripping over the manger, Davies found himself facing an imposing piebald staring at him confusedly.

"That's yours, Bertie. It was the smallest I could find, apart from the pony. The latter's rather small — even for you." He snickered. "Now, where's the tack?"

"Tack?"

"Oh, you know. The bridle, saddle, like that."

"Oh. There," Bertie replied, pointing to a shapeless mass of leather hanging from a nail. Thornhill took it and began to fasten all sorts of bits to the horse, in a way that seemed extremely skilled to his inexperienced companion, but was, in truth, quite clumsy — a testament to his pittance of three years under the tutelage of his father. Perhaps his two years spent in dugouts and funk-holes (for when it was so muddy dugouts could not be made) had made him rusty.

Thornhill then proceeded to bridle the horse in the next stall — a charming grey that towered over the young man alarmingly. Once he had done that, he whacked the mare on the rump. "Come, old girl!" Said 'old girl' snorted and tossed its head, not comprehending English and rather affronted by such treatment. This attracted the attention of the elleth, and she gently chastised the young man.

She did not know how they handled horses in his lands, but here the equines would move at the lightest touch. One murmured command and they would do your bidding. Of course, it was easier when one was of the edhellen, but men the horses trusted would find said animals placid and obedient. Of course, they _could_ be spooked, but the horses could sense the intentions and feelings of anybody handling them, and responded accordingly. Elrond had them well-trained, she said.

"Bertie! Come and translate!"

* * *

It had been bad enough trying to get _onto_ the horse. Davies' mount was a keen gelding, quite tall — after a few failed attempts to mount the horse on his own, the man had to resort to stepping on an upturned mash-bucket.

Now, perched on top, Davies felt as though one movement of the horse could tip him into an unceremonious, bruised heap on the ground. It was quite dizzying, really — uncomfortable, but not _frightening_. He glanced over at Ernest, sitting tall upon the grey mare, no longer looking as cock-a-hoop after the dressing-down from the elleth. Thankfully, the twenty-year-old's height had been great enough that he could just about swing himself into the saddle. His arms and shoulders would ache the next morning, however.

"You stay there," he commanded Davies. "I want to try something." Davies saw him lean into the grey's ear, and dig his heels lightly into its flanks. It began to walk.

"It's a miracle, Bertie! I _must_ return home and teach this to old Betsy in the stables!" Thornhill paused a moment, thinking. "How do you say _trot_?"

"I don't know. Are you going to teach me to ride, or not?"

"There's nothing to teach you. Just tell the horse to go, and it'll go."

" _Go_ , then." Immediately, Davies felt himself sway side-to-side, as his horse ambled comfortably forward. It was an immense effort to sit straight like his companion, and to ignore the ever-niggling worry that his mount might rear and pitch him off. "Ernest! How do you make it turn? Tell it to turn right or left?"

"Tug the rein on the side you want to turn."

To Davies' surprise, the horse did turn around, and he had to steady himself once more to prevent a fall from the saddle. _Damn horses, and damn my five feet and five_.

"You're awfully good at this, Bertie. D'you want to trot?" Thornhill had now aligned himself with the poor man, looking as if he'd ridden edhellen-horses all his life. "Don't sit so rigid, now, you must move with the horse. It can tell if you're frightened, you know."

"I don't know how to say _trot_."

"Oh. Yes, I hadn't thought of that."

After a few circles upon the field where the horses were taken to eat and romp about, Davies felt sufficiently comfortable — or, rather, uncomfortable — for Thornhill to take pity on him and let the horses back in. This was followed by a lesson in grooming, for several stable-hands had now arrived to muck out the horses, and were not displeased to have some help.

As soon as the men were thirty feet away from the stable doors, Davies took a deep breath. "You know, I got used to the smell of blood and the like, but I shan't ever like the smell of horses."

"Horses smell much better than dead men, Bertie."

"Well then! You can see why I didn't join the cavalry." And so, they made their way to breakfast.

* * *

Aduialion took them to the main yard. There was a crowd of edhellen there, their raiment made grey by the dying light, all facing about the same way. Davies, being a good amount shorter than the rest of the crowd, managed to peer through a tangle of elbows to see a group of people dressed for travel.

"Those are the nine walkers," said a slightly husky voice behind him. Davies started, but it was only Ólon, a smith whose face and name he knew only. His unusually hoarse voice set him apart from others at the forge, and was jarring to listen to in conjunction with the beautiful language of the edhellen. "A company aptly named, for they shall wander far indeed. Their journey will determine the fate of Arda, so I am told."

"Is that so?" Davies peered again through the elbows, and tried to recognise the faces of the company. There was Thranduilion Legolas, shoulder-length hair tied back with a leather thong, and the four _periain_ whom he had first met smoking pipes inside a closed room. A tall man was sitting, bowed, upon a step. It appeared that they were waiting for something.

"A motley band, is it not, Béti?" That was Himelon, appearing behind him. His hair was plaited back neatly — unusual for the ellon, who left it loose or tied it back with a piece of string. Everybody was here to-night.

"Motley?"

"Ai, I forget the elven-speech is not your mother-tongue! They are all — different, I shall say."

"I see that."

Eager to leave, a pony pawed the ground restlessly, and the halfling with dark brown hair quieted it with soothing words that Davies would never understand. The two ellith in front of the man had parted now, and he saw that the old, blonder halfling looked worried. The expression was slightly comical on his good-natured, ruddy face, but would have foretold grim tidings upon the face of one such as Thranduilion, perhaps. Beside him stood a wizened little thing, who could have been his father — or even his grandfather. And then, clear as day, it dawned upon Davies why there was such a turnout.

They were saying good-bye.

A recollection clawed its way to the front of Davies' mind: one of himself on leave, March nineteen-fifteen. The rough sounds of tuneless male voices, old and young, filtering through the open windows of his house. _It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go_ … _the sweetest girl I know_ … _farewell Leicester Square_ … He knew that song. It was bellowed often enough at mealtimes by the privates at Étaples, preparing to be dispatched to mud, boredom, and ruthless bloodshed. He stuck his head out of the window to see a snake of privates, most of them lacking any sort of musical talent, marching down the street, as their wives and girl-friends threw flowers from upper-story windows. The last time most of them would walk on Reading's roads again.

And the nine walkers were those privates, albeit significantly less noisy and half as vulgar. It struck quite a queer feeling in Davies — a feeling that he was seeing something again. He didn't like it at all. It put a lump in his throat and a similar weight in his chest, and made his vision grow blurry enough that he couldn't see what was going on. Damn it all, he _wanted_ to see what was happening. So Davies rubbed his eyes and blinked several times in succession, and peered once more at the assembled party.

Lord Elrond had appeared now, a great, grey-clad man beside him. The latter bore a long wooden staff in his left hand as though it were a walking-stick, though the staff seemed a little long for the job. Elrond spoke quietly to the company for a little while — then the man on the step straightened and stood, and they arranged themselves for departure. A bit of light reflected from something on a halfling's chest. He had now taken a resigned air, looking ruefully back at his ancient relation.

"Galu," came manifold murmurs around Davies. Good luck. _They'll need it_ , the man reflected gloomily, 'Tipperary' ringing in his ears.

"Savo hîdh nen gurth," Himelon whispered beside him.

"What is that?"

"Peace —" the ellon mimed sleeping "— in death." He drew a finger across his throat. Davies cringed.

There was no singing or poetry that night.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Sindarin translations:

Galu - good luck

Savo hîdh nen gurth - Have peace in death

In case your eyes glossed over the translations in the text.

Name meanings:

Ólon - dream

A darker end to a chapter than normal. Could it be a sign of plot progression? Ooh… or not.

I hope I got the horse terminology right — I'm not a jockey, but I have my sources. I think Davies shall have much fun during the next few weeks!

The leaving of the Fellowship was nearly screwed up, until I had the sense to look back at the book and make some amendments. And yes, that's Davies getting emotional and denying it immediately. Boy, are those men good at that. And Himelon's burst of black humour is probably most unelflike, but more appropriate, strangely, to my two OCs. How funny.

Replies to reviews now go via my PMs! I don't waste space at the bottom of my author's notes anymore! Yay me!

Do excuse the self-promotion.

 **A.B.C.**


	12. Home Fires Still Burning

It had been approximately a week since the Nine Walkers had walked off towards their mission of doom. How would he know? Thornhill found it exceedingly difficult to count the days in Imladris, and he still couldn't really understand the Elves' strange calendars, of which there were not many.

All the young man knew was that it was now most definitely winter, and that it was becoming rather cold outside. He hazarded a guess at early December, though it could have been later. _Do the edhellen have Christmas?_ he wondered, gathering up a bundle of dirty linen in the wash-room. "No, I suppose not," he replied to himself out loud. "I don't think they believe in God."

Funny, the edhellen being heathens. They were most un-heathenish in disposition — nothing like those described in the books at school. _I ought to send Tom here as a missionary_. Thornhill sniggered at the image of his older brother reading Scripture to Davies' smith friends, and made his way outside to the Bruinen.

It was cold — even through his woolen cloak, which had served its purpose well thus far. Thornhill's teeth were chattering already, even as he dragged his first under-tunic into the frigid water, holding onto it tightly to keep it from being tossed away by the ever-playful current. The river's roaring swelled in his ears. _Oh, damn it all, I've forgotten the washboard._ He then placed the dripping linen onto a nearby boulder, scrubbing it violently with soap until a reasonable lather had formed, and swilled it again in the river until all traces of soap had gone. After a few slaps of the boulder with said linen, it was as good as clean. That was all an under-tunic needed — muddy outer garments such as hose and cloaks would be soaped several times. Thornhill wrung it and laid it aside.

Once three or so other undergarments received the same treatment, the young man had settled into a sort of rhythm and was no longer shivering so violently. It was hard work, washing by hand, but there was a sort of satisfaction in beating the sludge and sweat out of dirty clothing. Thornhill began to whistle. It was not a remarkable tune by any means; it was simply one of the sentimental ballads his mother liked to play on her piano, that had somehow resurfaced in his mind and stuck there. But there was an admiring chuckle beside him, and Thornhill turned to see a blond ellon kneeling down with a basket of his own linen.

"That is music unlike anything that has entered my ears." He spoke in Common Speech, and Thornhill did not understand much.

"Is it?"

"Indeed. What is the name of the song?"

"I do not know."

"Then I shall not press you." The ellon commenced washing a blue tunic. Thornhill could see a wine-coloured stain spreading from the hem. For a little while, both men ploughed on — the only sounds heard were wet slapping, sloshing as a wet garment was lifted from the water, and the omnipresent roar of the Bruinen. And then the Elf spoke up.

"I see you have braved the chill of the morn — would you not rather launder your linen inside?"

That was slightly much for the young man. " _Daro_. I speak edhellen. Better than Common Speech."

"Ai! So you are an elf-friend?"

"No, I — er — it is hard to say. I learn here, I do not know anything before."

"You learn here, in Imladris? What far lands you must hail from, adan."

"Yes. Far." Thornhill's mouth twitched. Funny how the Sindarin word for yes was _no_.

"This must be a waystation for further travels, then."

"No, I do not travel. I — come." The ellon opened his mouth to say something, but Thornhill shook his head. "Do not ask me. I have no words for it, I cannot say."

"You are still learning our tongue, I see."

"Yes." Methodically, Thornhill wrung a pair of braies and threw them upon the ever-increasing pile of freshly-washed underclothes. It was becoming cold again, and he noticed that his hands were now stiff and cherry-red, turning purple in places; his fingers were lamentably shrivelled up like dried prunes. "The river is white. I think the day when it — er — jumps. Great white horses."

His increasingly incoherent sentences buzzed in his head, muddled by the stinging wind. What he had _meant_ to say was, _That white foam the river makes reminds me of that afternoon when Bertie and I were smoking, and this river was boiling over. The foam made things that looked like horses. I say, I never saw the like of it anywhere else._ But he didn't, and Thornhill gritted his teeth. At least this ellon was reasonably intelligent.

"A! Do you speak of the flooding of the Bruinen?"

"Yes —?" Thornhill tried.

"It was an awesome sight, was it not, adan? I stood at that very bank there —" the ellon pointed at the fringe of a wood upon the other side of the river "with three _periain_ , I having lent my mount to the fourth, who was gravely hurt. He was pursued by the Ringwraiths, and —"

"Ringwraiths?"

Thornhill expected the ellon to laugh, but he did not. In fact, a small crease appeared in his brow. "We shall not speak of them here, adan."

There was quiet for a moment, as the Elf soaped a worn pair of hose, and Thornhill dipped his last under-tunic. Then, "Please. Go on."

"The halfling was pursued, as I have said. But I bade Asfaloth be swift, and he was duly so — he and the halfling, whose name was _Labingi_ , I believe, crossed the ford safely. Lord Elrond flooded the Bruinen shortly afterwards, so that the Ringwraiths were unhorsed. Once that deed was done, the other halflings and I were able to cross, and the injured halfling was taken swiftly into Elrond's care." The ellon gave a minute sigh. "It was a grave hurt indeed — a testament to the hardiness of the halflings. An ordinary man such as you could have been killed."

Half that paragraph was unintelligible, but the serious tone of it told all. This was not the tale of the half-pints of beer killed by a sword that Silevel had told Thornhill, in what now seemed a long time ago. "What was the hurt?"

But the ellon shook his head. "I am loath to tell you, adan. A grave sword-wound will suffice as description." A pause. "Lindir should hear of the song you were whistling. He is very fond of Mannish music." His mouth quirked into a smile at his own sardonic quip, and he looked down to his washing again.

"It has been good to speak to you. I leave now. It is cold."

"I can see, adan."

* * *

Thornhill could not resist a nip into the forge on his way back to the wash-room. His hands were beginning to feel rather like they had done for the January he had spent in in the trenches two years ago, or so — stiff, heavy and numb.

He found Davies there, also warming his hands in front of the furnace. "Move sideways, Bertie, there's a good fellow. My hands are frozen."

"You needn't have gone out there to wash, you know. It was —"

"— I know. That Elf told me too. Why _he_ came out there to do his washing was beyond me," Thornhill retorted, placing his hands at a reasonable distance from the glowing furnace. "It's too late now, anyhow. The linens are finished."

"Are they, now? Well done, Ernest, old boy!"

"You be quiet."

"Yes, sir." Davies moved back despite his cheek, turning to watch the apprentices at work. Some were sweeping out the smithy; others were practising at their metalwork. "Cold day, isn't it?"

"Rather! Wind seeped right through that heavy cloak of mine. Perhaps my old great-coat would've stood it, but not those awful things."

"You officers were lucky. We men 'ad to make do with the groundsheets. Did bloody well nothing to keep out the cold — the edhellen-cloaks suit me wonderfully."

"I'm sure they do." The warmth from the glowing coals began to spread through Thornhill's fingers, easing the stiffness. The ability to feel had not come yet, and he was glad that it hadn't.

"Well — there was no coals to warm your hands in France, either, and not an inkling of white bread or stew." Davies pondered a moment. "Well, there _was_ stew, but I wouldn't call it that after having the stuff here."

"I believe we had chicken once," countered Thornhill, grinning. "Captain Kidd ordered it. He thought that we boys were wanting a reward after a particularly grubby day — going over the top and all that. Frightfully expensive. Kidd was an old chap, had children of his own, and spoiled them to death no doubt." He paused, wincing: his hands had begun to tingle feverishly — a sign that feeling was eventually returning. "But, my Lord! — wasn't it awfully nice to sit down to a warm supper that night!"

"Warm suppers are always nice. Best when had at the estaminet — or, better yet — on the first night on leave." Davies sighed in satisfaction, rubbing at his beard. It was beginning to look rather thick.

"I'll bet your wife must've given you a topping spread when you came back. You _are_ married, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"What's her name?"

"Gertrude."

"I see. Do you have children, too?"

"Two."

The change which had come over Thornhill's companion was sudden, and it quite chilled the young man. His face, once in an easy half-smile, was now as though set in stone, and his eyes no longer twinkled genially. The grey in them was now cold, sharp — gathering storm-clouds in each iris. And the fact that Thornhill had noticed all this in the flash of a second, thought it in such poetic terms, made his newly-warmed hands shake. He folded them judiciously behind his back. _My senses are back. They haven't troubled me since Imladris, and now they're back. Damn it, damn this war, damn the Kaiser, that bloody thing that sent me here._

But Thornhill couldn't stop himself. "How old are they?"

"Six and three, I think."

"Righto. Well, I'm quite warm now, so I'll go and do some mending, I suppose." His voice may have inadvertently travelled an octave higher towards the end of the sentence, but a catastrophe had been evaded. For that, Ernest Thornhill was grateful.

* * *

Sniff. In, out. Cough. Horses. Bob — up, down, up, down. Jolt-jolt. Move with the horse. _Move, damn it!_ Sniff. In, out. Still horses. Horse-hair on the hose. Turn. Turn, now! Tug the rein. _Left — TURN!_ Chuckle. _Now I am the recruit_. Slip — slip-slip-slip — right again. Jolt-jolt-jolt-jolt. Up, down, up, down. Teeth rattling. _How much longer_.

"Slow." Davies' gelding obeyed him and slowed to a walk, and the man took a minute or two to collect his senses. The last time he had attempted a trot, it had been a week ago. It was too soon: he had fallen, and had lain upon the ground for some time, cursing the man who had thought of riding horses anyhow.

"Jolly good show, Bertie!" The young man watching gave some applause, swallowed by the air, his breath steaming out into the frigid morning. "But you needn't hold the reins so tightly. You look as though you want to strangle the poor horse."

"Perhaps I do."

"Don't be silly."

"I think I'll be sick." Davies did feel a little queasy, after all that jolting, although the crisp air took most of it away.

"Why, you're a bloody wet-blanket! D'you want to canter next week?" he asked, as an afterthought. He rose from the frosted mound of grass he had been sitting upon, and made his way to his own steed. This one was a spirited black mare, rather given to the occasional fit, according to the female stable-hand. While his thirty-two-year-old companion was torturously learning how to sit straight upon a walking horse, Thornhill had took it upon himself to learn to ride bareback. His endeavours were successful, for the most part.

"Cantering's frightfully easy, Bertie. You _must_ learn soon — I'm hoping for a race with you, sometime." Thornhill looked wistful for a moment, before snapping back cheerfully. He swung himself upon the horse and gripped her mane, digging his heels into her flanks to make her go.

A dizzying circle, a strangled yell, and a thump as a blond young man found his way to the ground.

"Precisely why I won't, Ernest." Chuckling genially, Davies helped his companion up, ignoring his protests. The black mare regarded her overthrown rider with a mild interest.

"Perhaps I had her go a little too fast."

"Yes, you did. Don't be so cock-a-hoop next time, either," replied Davies, cuffing Thornhill on the shoulder.

"I never learn, do I, Bertie? Now, if I get back up onto Die-rock, or whatever the hell that horse's name is, and you mount yours, we'll have a last brisk trot on the grass."

"Oh, _no_."

Jolt-jolt-jolt-jolt-jolt, up, down, up, down. Sniff, in, out. Horse-smell. Getting slightly less pungent. Perhaps Davies would even get used to it.

* * *

It was already dark, and only a few hours after lunch, too. Fires crackled in almost every room in the household, providing both light and warmth, and smelling of that smoky burning smell that reminded Davies of his house in Berkshire. My, was that long ago. He forced the memory from his mind and took a sheaf of parchment. Perhaps he'd write a letter.

But his mind was empty of words, robbed of them — he could think of nothing past _my dear Gertude, Eva and Andrew_. Nothing to say. Then he would go to borrow a needle and some thread, and mend the hose he had torn this morning, brushing past a protruding nail at the stables.

Ernest, Davies discovered, had a whole host of threads in his bedroom, along with a needle or two. _He won't mind if I steal something, will he_. And so he left with a ball of brown wool and a needle made out of a queer, whitish material.

Davies seated himself again, his legs toasting nicely by the fire, and tied a knot in the wool thread. He sewed his first stitch, and then a second, and a third. _Mending's easy_. The ragged edges were coming together slowly, in a great ridge of a seam. Like a sewn-up scar, Davies reflected. Clumsily mended and unsightly, but it served its purpose until more skilled fingers would unpick the great stitches and sew tinier ones. But torn cloth did not heal.

* * *

"You are getting faster, Thonel. I must commend you for that."

"Long words are a trouble to me. In my writing we have small letters. It is more easy to read."

"That may be, but we do not have your writing in Arda. Should you wish to leave this place and reside in a village of Men, reading the tîwdi will be a useful skill indeed." Silevel took a damp rag and cleared the slate. "We will try a few different words, now."

She busied with the chunk of white charcoal, writing out the mysterious symbols that Thornhill still needed a book to decipher.

"Help." That one was easy. Silevel had written that countless times. "Food. Dr — drink. L —"

"Go on."

"La — la — latr —"

"It is an unfamiliar word. It is natural to hesitate, Thonel."

"La — tr — _damn it!_ — Latrine." _What a scream, Silevel_. "Why must I know that word?"

Unsmiling, Silevel replied, "Latrines are clearly labeled in Mannish villages. It would save you much mortification if you could recognise them."

Silevel was right. If he could help it, he was not going to ask about in his limited Common Speech where the lavatories were. Signs would be useful indeed. But, then, the lavatories would most likely be an outhouse at best, or perhaps a structure like Thornhill had used when down the line — a crude wooden shelter covering a hole, with a wooden board as a seat. He could bear the latrines.

"I should write these words again?"

"You will not find much need for writing in Arda, Thonel. We remember facts, use messengers and recall our deeds by song. **1** Should you wish to travel to Gondor and enter their court, however, you will certainly need to write."

The last sentence was misunderstood and went unheeded. "Writing help me remember."

" _Helps_ me, Thonel." The elleth shook her head at his careless slip. "You have been here for several months now — you must not let yourself make such mistakes. But you may write the words down." She pushed the slate to her pupil, yet again freshly cleared with a swipe of a rag.

Slowly, painstakingly, Thornhill formed each letter as small as he could. _Help_. _Food_. _Drink_. _Latrine_. _Greetings_. _Hurt_. _Ill_. Each bow, each stem, each curl to represent a vowel sound. They were so ugly, the faint white scratchings from the charcoal. Did they have chalk? Without thinking, he scribbled a quick translation of each word beside them. _My letters. These are My Letters_.

"They will look better when written in ink, I think."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Plot hole explanation: Most of you probably haven't noticed this, but I suggested at the end of chapter 10 that Thornhill was learning the tîwdi in the Classical Mode — i.e. using diacritics to denote vowels. Having had a quick peep at _dreamingfifi_ 's Sindarin textbook, it turns out that said Classical Mode was often used to write Westron, and that the Gondorians used it. The few Sindarin elves that could write would generally use the Mode of Beleriand, which uses letters for vowels.

To clear this up, let us assume that Silevel is a) one of the few literate Elves out there, b) an elleth who learnt to write using the Classical Mode, and c) hoping to become one of Elrond's advisors one day.

1 - adapted from dreamingfifi's comment about why the Elves did not see much need for writing.

Thank you to all my reviewers, especially the guests to whom I cannot reply by PM. I really appreciate your comments, positive or otherwise.

 **A.B.C.**


	13. A Brief Intermission

_Though your lads are far away/ They dream of home._

Keep the Home Fires Burning, Ivor Novello, 1914

* * *

A piece of parchment lay upon the ground. It was an innocuous thing, lying there in Thornhill's path. He would pick it up and return it to its rightful owner. Shameful thing, to leave mess lying about like that. Lieutenant Moore had hated the constant state of disorganisation of the company headquarters, and was always hankering after Captain Wakefield to clean it up. Never mind that Wakefield was skipper, and he the second-in-command.

Moore was but nineteen, and an exceptional soldier. It was always strange to have a superior officer that was younger than oneself, even by just a year. His chief fault had been neatness and precision — a precision too precise for even the Army. There would always be a rifle barrel with a speck too much dirt upon it, and the men had often exhausted themselves in doing their fatigues, in hope that Moore would be satisfied. But he never was.

Shrapnel was what got him. A piece in the leg. He had died slowly, his mother's name upon his lips, gripping a stretcher-bearer's hand so hard it bruised. A waste. A relief.

But that was beside the point — there was a piece of parchment lying upon the ground, and Thornhill bent down to pick it up. He held it in his slim, long-fingered hands, a rough edge catching against a callus. Words had been hastily scribbled down in ink, smudged at the end where their writer had folded the parchment, too impatient to let them dry. The handwriting was spidery. The words were in English.

 _I miss you all terribly. I have made new friends and there is the officer of course, but I will love you best of all. Soon I will spend my first Christmas with those who don't celebrate it, but at least there is no mud this time._

 _Gertrude do you remember when we got married? The mid-winter of 1908 it was, wind blowing everywhere. The church was drafty and your mother wouldn't stop blubbing. I still love you as much as I did then, if you still feel the same._

 _You needn't worry about me. Food is excellent, I am keeping warm. You take care of my children, Gertrude. Keep them fed. I am sure they will grow well._

 _Papa_

"Well, I ought to return this to Bertie, then." Thornhill re-folded the parchment and tucked it into the voluminous sleeve of his surcoat, the letter rustling in response. So Bertie wrote letters to his family then — and that meant that England was here, somewhere, if he could send them. A wild leap of happiness engulfed the young man standing there in the middle of the corridor. A great jump and whoop of joy was extremely undignified, but he could not help a weirdly choked laugh. _I can go home. We can go home_.

There was no need to learn to write, to speak Common Speech — Thornhill would take Die-rock and ride home, at a full gallop for as long as the edhellen-horse would take him. Who knew what was behind those great mountains? Perhaps the edhellen did not know about England because they were so far away, hidden by those great mountains. Even a great sea between Thornhill and his home country would not be terrible. Build a boat, and sail across. Or—

Reality interrupted Thornhill's high boyish fantasy, to remind him that Bertie would be wanting his letter back. Even as he roamed Elrond's household, images of a horse galloping across miles and miles of grass, and his mother, embracing him as he returned home at last, crossed the young man's mind, making him grin until his face nigh split in two. _I can go home_.

"Ernest. What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Thornhill paused abruptly. His daydream trickled out of his mind, leaving nothing but a fool's contentment. "Oh — well, I — er — wanted to —" He could not quite remember why he was wandering about. "— er, return something. You dropped a letter."

"Did I, now?"

"Yes. D'you want it back?" He pulled the folded sheaf of parchment from his sleeve. "I say, what a wonderful thing! We can go back to Blighty now, can't we? If you're sending letters and suchlike to your wife, and —"

"No."

"No — what?"

"No, you can't. Yes, I'll have my letter. Thanks very much." Davies quirked his mouth into a vaguely encouraging half-smile and patted Thornhill's arm. Then he turned on his heel and made his way elsewhere, leaving Thornhill stranded.

What did Bertie mean, _no_? Thornhill attempted to summon again the image of Die-rock running across lush green fields, but this time he could not quite manage it. Every time he tried, bullets would fly straight into the horse's flanks, rendering its legs useless. _Damn my senses_. In fact, most of his wild euphoria had dissipated, leaving lassitude and a blankness that could only be paralleled in the front line if one drank the sufficient amount of whisky. He ought to have been thankful. But it made him angry instead.

* * *

"Hullo — Bertie?"

"Morning." Davies twisted about in his chair to see Thornhill hovering at the door, biting his lip. "What do you want?"

"I was just thinking, Bertie — does Imladris have some sort of a post? I'd like to send a quick note off to Mother and Tom, tell them I'm not dead. You know?"

"Tell them you're not — dead —"

"That's right."

"Tom — he's your brother?"

"Yes."

"How d'you know he's not dead somewhere on a battlefield?"

"He became a missionary. He's converting children in Africa."

Davies laughed aloud. "And the War Office let him off for that, eh?"

"Yes. When Father dies, he's going to take over the vicarage."

So Ernest had a vicar for a brother. Funny, that, but perfectly plausible. A few officers were vicars' sons. And then, of course, there were the chaplains that could hold services sometimes — the Catholics had their Holy Communion, then, too. The Eucharist was what they called it. Davies was not a Catholic, but one of the sergeant-majors was. A good man. Davies quite liked him.

"How _do_ you send your letters, Bertie?" Thornhill had spoke up again.

"What's that?"

"How d'you send a letter from here? Does a horse carry the post?"

"I don't know, Ernest." A strange weariness branched from the back of Davies' mind. He fought it. "I really don't."

"Well, damn it! — you ought to know, seeing as you send them to your wife every week!"

The weariness began to cloud his mind. He thought of his dejected walk away from the dark-haired ellon who has not known what a _pós men_ was, and massaged his temples. Surely he was getting enough sleep these days, with no recruits to mind, no battles to fight.

"I say, _surely_ you ought to know, Bertie! How have you been sending all those letters off, then?" There was a tangibly impatient, querulous note in Thornhill's voice, now. Third or fourth time he'd asked. The weariness in Davies snapped. He swore violently.

"Bertie —?"

"I haven't been sending them! I haven't sent any of 'em! There's _no_ postal service, you bloody idiot!"

"Bertie — what's wrong?"

Davies felt his face flame, his legs propel him from his chair. He couldn't take Ernest's cheek any more — it ground him into bits, it did. _Can I send my letter. Can I send my letter._ "There ain't no England, do I make myself clear? _No. England_. I can't send my bloody letters, and I don't bloody well want to, damn you! Didn't you hear Elrond? _Didn't you say to me, I don't think Arda is Earth?_ Well, you were right that time, 'cause it ain't! You'll never send your letter, and we're here, and we can't go back."

He ran out of breath there, his face burning. It had been a long time ago that he had been as angry as that. Thornhill stood before him, ashen, his mouth twisting as though he wished to speak, but the power had been robbed from him.

"Leave me be."

Thornhill found his voice. "I — I say, I didn't know you had it in you, Bertie."

"I was a drill sergeant. Of course I could bellow," retorted Davies gruffly. Fatigue bore down on him again, in a great fog. _If only he'd go_. "It's sunny. Why don't you go outside."

"O — of course. Righto." He turned and left abruptly.

 _Gertrude, if you could see me now._

* * *

Apart from a faint rumble in the distance, Outside was silent. Thornhill could hear the murmurs of his platoon behind him, barely repressed fear and quaking insides. His insides were quaking, too. He remembered Captain Wakefield's orders: no faster than a walk, and tell your men to spread out. Bunching would attract the enemy. Spread out.

He could hear the frantic, whispering prayers of young Private O'Connor, the quick _slip_ as his hand moved over his rosary beads. The inhaling of men smoking their last cigarette. The rustle of his platoon sergeant, Davies, returning, having put the flask of rum and the spoon away. Even a healthy measure of Dutch courage could not quiet the ranks today — after all, this was the Big Push.

Thornhill glanced at his watch, gripping his revolver in a clammy hand. Any minute now, any minute. He licked his lips. Wouldn't have made a sound from the whistle if he didn't. An _amen_ from O'Connor, and a fumbling as he deposited the cherished beads into his tunic pocket. Thornhill had no time to pray, or he would have been on his knees, begging God to spare him.

A cry. _Fix — BAYONETS!_ Then a distant screech. Zero hour.

Thornhill's breath hitched massively in his throat as he pulled in some air. And again. And he blew into the piece of hollowed metal in his left hand, scrambling up a rickety ladder, up to exposed air — "Come on, lads! For King and country!"

The walk was torturous. Already climbing over the barbed wire, and the detested rattle of German machine-guns rang out. Two men were left hanging, shot mid-clamber. _Don't bunch_. Always he reminded the men — don't bunch. Into, over a shell-hole. Whistle as bullets flew overhead. _Don't bunch, keep apart_. Stumbling as he tripped over a great clod of overturned earth, nearly wrenching his ankle. The thud of falling men.

A scream. " _Man down!_ " Thornhill turned, and saw his company commander fall into the grass, blood pouring from his shoulder. He had been hit twice. Captain Wakefield, dead — and one of his second lieutenants looking across in a split second of mute horror — and Thornhill said _don't bunch_ and aimed his revolver forward, walking resolutely.

More falling men. Some yelling in pain, others killed outright. Thornhill didn't care — not now. Boots treading down yellow grass, poppies brushing against puttees. He glanced back at his men, to make sure they were not bunching. _Good, they're obeying my orders_. It was a mistake of a second.

Pain! His right thigh burned with a vicious fire with the next step forward, and his knee buckled. It made the pain worse. Tears flooded his eyes; he thought he would vomit. _Aughrrrrrh_. Black and red spots popped in front of him, and the crumpled grass rose up to his face—

It was so vivid that Ernest Thornhill felt hard earth on his back, and thought he would wake up with Bertie's concerned visage above him. However, he did not: his eyes, sticky with sleep, opened to a ceiling dyed grey by night, and his body was weighed down by a feather-quilt and a thick, woolen coverlet. Thornhill fumbled a hand towards his hair. It was lank and dampened with sweat. Now he was aware of a layer of perspiration all over his body, and he shivered — the blankets now did nothing to warm him. _He was killed right in front of me. First it was Kidd, and then Moore, and then Wakefield. And I'm here, in a bed in Imladris, alive._ Thornhill sat up. _I shan't get back to sleep_.

The absence of a coverlet made a difference now, as the young man swung himself off the side of his bed. He shuddered again, the skin on the soles of his feet cringing when they made contact with the ground. It was really very cold.

Perhaps Davies was awake too, and he would have some company, somebody to lessen the hollowness of a room at night. Somebody with a dry humour that would reassure Thornhill in its bareness — somebody whose presence would anchor him firmly to the world that lived outside of his war-wrecked mind. But he padded to the room of his friend and companion, glanced inside it, and found that the man was fast asleep.

"Damn it," he whispered, closing the door softly and tiptoeing back. "I'll study a few of my edhellen-letters, then."

And so the young officer took a loosely-bound book and began to read it, stripped of his stars of rank and dressed in nothing but a linen under-tunic and a pair of leggings. A waxing gibbous moon gave him light enough to make out the beautiful symbols. The world was silent.

But the book, relaying a severely abridged history of an elleth with hair as black as midnight and a voice like unto a nightingale, could not hide the aching loneliness that pulled at Thornhill's mind. It was so quiet. His bedroom was so _empty_. Davies, asleep, no inkling of the horrors that his friend had relived just then. And Mathews and Wakefield and Moore and all the men that he had failed to let live, corpses cold and rotting on French soil, never to see or breathe again.

But it wasn't grief. Just the knowledge that he was _alone_.

Thornhill's hands flew to his face, the book falling forgotten upon the ground; he was unable to ignore his misery any longer. It ached in his chest and throat, stood wet and hot in his eyes. He gave a small sob. _Don't blub, you'll never sleep, don't, don't_ —

Thornhill gave up and wept. The loneliness would ease itself in time.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

A chapter involving more of the First World War than Tolkien's legendarium, sadly. Thornhill's nightmare is inspired by scenes from many WWI books and films, including a documentary about the Battle of the Somme and a scene from the film _Joyeux Noël_. The reference to the 'elleth with hair as black as midnight and a voice like unto a nightingale' is of course the famous Lúthien Tinuviel.

Thank you as always to my reviewers — do drop something into that box at the bottom of the page, even if it's a bit of harsh criticism or something.

Cheero

 **A.B.C.**


	14. In the Bleak Midwinter: Imladris

' _When you go home tell them of us and say_ / _For their tomorrow we gave our today_.'

John Maxwell Edmonds

Remember the fallen now on Armistice Day, when the War to End All Wars came to ceasefire on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

 _Title taken from the title of Christina Rosetti's poem, '_ In the Bleak Midwinter' _._

* * *

The morning foretold snow. It was overcast, and a sharp wind nipped Himelon's nose as he hurried into the smithy. He would be sweeping today, and starting another one of those tiresome daggers — why Demmedir, his master, had not tasked him with the making of a simple broadsword yet was beyond him. But then, Himelon's fingers favoured the flute over the hammer, even if he himself enjoyed metalwork.

He had lamented that to Thonel earlier, as he broke his fast in the cheerful dining-hall. The young mortal had not looked so well: between his hands was clutched a steaming cup of chamomile tea, and his eyes were bloodshot, his lips swollen slightly. But he had smiled wanly as Himelon chattered, and had proffered a decent reply or two, in a voice that was not hoarsened by cold. Only weary and subdued. Perhaps he had not slept so well the previous night.

"Ai na vedui, Himelon! I have been waiting for a long time — come, help me sweep." Iúlchon looked critically at his friend. "You will have to tie your hair back first, however."

Yet again, Himelon had forgotten to scrape his hair back into a neat plait. He sighed. "I've no thong, Iúlchon. Perchance you could lend me a kerchief?"

Iúlchon procured one smudged with black from a pocket in his apron. "You shall have to content yourself with this. It is not clean, but it serves its purpose."

"Very well." Once he had swept his hair into a crude tail, Himelon was able to take a broom from the smithy wall and began to clear the ground of dust. Sweeping was work for young apprentices, barely past their majority. Surely, with twenty years of experience, Himelon would be skilled enough to forego that occupation. Even Iúlchon would give the broom up to somebody else, as soon as they arrived. But for now, some conversation was warranted to alleviate boredom.

"Penninor approaches, Himelon. Will you play in the hall of fire this time?"

"If I am able to. Lindir will wish to play a broad programme during the evening, and there will be much singing, of course. And there are other minstrels also."

"And Lindir's students," Iúlchon added, grinning. "But I do not jest. I have heard you practising that flute of yours, and the songs you play are beautiful."

"My thanks."

"No matter! How long have you played?"

"I received the flute as a gift, when I reached my majority. My father taught me to play it."

"Glindir!" Iúlchon hooted in a way befitting a child of Men more than an ellon of ninety-odd years. "The one who rides along with Glorfindel and other great Elven warriors to search out the Nine! He is steely of temperament, Himelon. I would not have expected it of him."

Himelon coloured. "My father is not a warrior, mellon, and neither are most of those who ride against the Nine. Glorfindel is an exception."

"You tell me he fought during the days of the Last Alliance."

"He was barely past his majority. He did nothing. It was a miracle he was not slain."

"I assume you take after your mother, then. In looks and in disposition."

"Yes, I do. And look, here is Hwestion. You must doff your broom now, Iúlchon."

"A broom is not a thing to _doff_ , mellon. There, Hwestion," Iúlchon said, turning to the slight apprentice who had only begun to work under Demmedir a few weeks prior, "sweep the floors and ensure no snow comes in. It _is_ snowing, is it not?"

"Only a few flakes."

"That makes it simpler for all of us, then."

And so Himelon swept alone for another hour. The forge was pleasantly warm in contrast to the biting chill, and smiths and apprentices alike spent a few minutes in front of the fire, warming their hands before they got to work. There was Demmedir, who smiled at the young ellon and made a little conversation, and Ólon, who muttered a _hail_ in his ever-husky voice. Aduialion did not bother with warming his hands and immediately selected a broken knife from many hanging along one wall. He was now trusted enough now to begin the craft of reforging. Himelon envied him. Ýrdes also set to work as soon as she came in: she was a hardy elleth, and the cold did not reach her readily.

At last — the floors were as clean as one could make them, and Himelon leaned his broom against the south wall, took a cruet and a pair of tongs, and set to work. One day he would make a sword.

* * *

" _...the last whose lands were fair and free_

 _Between the mountains and the s—_ "

"You sing the rhythm too rigidly, Muinith. Gil-galad's lands were _free_ — therefore you must sing it more freely." Himelon put down his flute and demonstrated.

"I have but a sense of beat, brother mine. You know I have not your talent for conveying the emotion. Besides," she added, "You do not sing so well either."

"That is why you are to sing, and I to accompany, Muinith."

"Must I sing the entire Lay of Gil-Galad the first night of the new year?"

"We shall all have quaffed many goblets of spiced wine by the time you sing, nethig. Even the tongue of the severest critic shall be sweetened — and many will join you in song besides." Himelon gave an encouraging smile. "Now, we better have that again."

Strains of music floated from the shared bedroom of Himelon and his elder sister for many an hour during the remainder of the day. Sometimes the sound was sweet, and other times there were many false notes, or a screech from Himelon's flute. But when they emerged, an hour or so after sundown, faces flushed and slightly short of breath, it was evident that the practice had been a successful one.

They met their mother outside of the great chamber where Elrond's household supped, where she smiled and enquired as to what they had been doing these past few hours. "Why, what do you think we have been doing, nana?"

The elleth, small by the reckoning of the Elves, eyed the wooden flute in her son's hand. "I could never guess, ionneg."

"I will be singing the Lay of Gil-Galad the night the new year begins, and Himelon shall accompany me," said the sister of the aforementioned, whose father-name was Nibeniel.

"I shall anticipate that eagerly, then. However, there are more pressing matters that must be attended to — shall we have our supper now?"

Nibeniel laughed. "My stomach is growling, nana."

Grinning in return, the little lady pushed open the door to the dining chamber.

* * *

The stew was filling enough that night, and it warmed Davies besides, but something plagued at the back of his mind. It wasn't Himelon's sister, who was beautiful enough, anyhow. He was used to that. It wasn't the perfunctory dull ache that rose within him whenever he realised, yet again, that he could not go back. No, it wasn't that. Davies was sure of it.

Ah, yes. Davies chuckled mirthlessly. It was that Ernest had been acting differently today, like something was plaguing him, too. In fact, his odd behaviour could have been traced back to the evening after they'd had that row, when Davies had lost his patience with the young man and ousted him from his bedroom. Well, not exactly _ousted_. Ernest had not ventured more than a few inches past the doorway, and had backed right out again afterwards.

And, since this morning, the young man had not spoken a word to Davies at all. He had looked awfully morose talking to Himelon at breakfast, with the beginnings of shadows under

his eyes and a countenance haggard enough to look ill. "Why the long face?" Davies had asked him jestingly afterwards, and Ernest had given him a strange glance — pained, disbelieving and weary all at once. He had not questioned him further and left the man to his own devices.

He picked up his old battledress tunic now, yet unwashed and muddy. A noxious smell had begun to emanate from the khaki cloth, so besmirched was it with the dirt and blood from months ago. Davies grimaced and forced himself to look. There, on the right sleeve, his sergeant's stripes: three thin, pale green chevrons.

Here, by him, a looking-glass. In front of him, the bed. To his right, a chair, and above him, the ceiling with its spidering crack. Davies stepped in front of the looking-glass and stared at himself. A bearded man, five feet and five, stared back at him, hair shaggy and looking as though shears had not touched it for some time. He looked back at the stripes on his tunic. And then back at himself in the mirror.

He did not see a soldier. " _Sergeant_ Davies." Davies tested his rank on his tongue, and found it a bitter mockery of himself. The short, neatly-parted hair and his precisely clipped moustache were gone. His rank had been stripped of him. _You may leave the army, but the army never leaves you_. A fellow NCO, Sergeant Wilkes, had said that delightful proverb, sharing a small tot of whisky in the sergeants' mess at Étaples, Christmas 1914. Christmas! How long ago had that been? It must be Christmas soon, thought Davies. Fancy — Christmas in Imladris! He laughed at the impossibility of it. Christmas soon — and him holding up a crusty old tunic — and so comfortable, so far from home, in a place where English was not even a language. _What a bloody joke._

Abruptly, the call of nature interrupted his silent soliloquy, and he sighed. The outhouses of the Edhellim (this was a fairly recent improvement in the grammar of his spoken Sindarin, having learnt the proper term for the people as a whole a few days prior) were better-built than the one in his own garden, but the walk there was bitterly cold nevertheless.

Davies threw on a cloak and wrapped it tightly about himself, taking care to expose as little of his hand as possible to the air while he kept it closed. There was no point in putting up a hood; the wind blew too wildly for it to stay upon his head for long.

The path to the latrine itself wandered quaintly away, not so long as to exhaust the wait to relieve oneself, yet not so short as to place the latrine where it would befoul the air where the Elves lived and worked. They were certainly skilled when it came to calculating the _just right_ of things, Davies reflected. There was no need for a lantern to light the way, either. Lining the path were torches that flickered wildly beneath glass globes.

Up he wandered, following the torches until his bladder was nearly bursting. It was close upon torturous, but — as always — the row of outhouses was reached in time. _Thank goodness for that_. Yanking open the wooden door, he threw off his cloak, closed the door again and did his business. The wind whistled through a small crack in the wall as he took a trowelful of dirt and tossed it through the hole in the seat: the earth smelled wholesome and slightly sweet, successfully masking the unwelcome odours one generally finds in a latrine. Yet the scent did not enter one's nose in sickly sweet tendrils, either. It was simply another one of those Elven things.

Just right.

* * *

Thindor liked to consider himself learned, though he knew he was not a loremaster by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, his intellect seemed to be his outstanding attribute, the rest of him being rather pale and uninteresting, as his mother-name suggested. He could speak the High-elven tongue and the Common Speech fluently, having learned both from the age of twenty-five years, and it was this chief achievement that made him useful among Elrond's advisors.

Yet the tongue of the mortal men currently residing in the Elven-lord's household perplexed him, for he had heard it often, spoken in a respectful undertone in the libraries. It bore no resemblance to any of the tongues of Men whose tonality he was familiar with. The vowels were pronounced negligently and many consonant sounds were unfamiliar, all sounds coming out dissonantly — although the harshness was of a different kind to the grating of _annúnaid_. And lo! here was one of the men, striding towards him. He was the one whose face was clean-shaven, with wavy, sandy hair which he had allowed to grow to his shoulder-blades. The younger of the two. Perhaps he ought to greet him.

"Hail and well met, adan. Forgive me, I have forgotten your name."

"Ánest." The young mortal stopped, staring at Thindor. He had pronounced the name using the strange syllables of his mother-tongue, and Thindor's mouth quirked upwards. "A — the edhellen here name me Thonel."

"What are you doing abroad at this hour, Thonel?" Even Erestor had retired, though not to sleep deeply in the fashion of the mortals — only utter exhaustion could command that from him. "Does something trouble you?"

Thonel shook his head slowly. "Nothing troubles me — no, I am — _pi áciupaed_ ," he replied, lapsing into his language. "I do not know the word for it. Rest — restless. I am restless."

"Restless?"

"I believe — I wish to leave Imladris."

"Leave Imladris?"

"I do not know."

"To traverse the vast lands of Middle-Earth, no doubt." Thindor had heard many tales in his youth of the brave _edain_ who scaled mountains and crossed fields to claim their inheritances, or as vagabonds, exiled from their own homeland.

"No. I don't wish to traverse."

"You do not wish to go on a heroic quest of your own?"

Thonel snorted derisively and replied in his tongue. _I've seen enough heroics to know better_. Then in Sindarin. "No."

"I will advise you against venturing from this haven. There is evil abroad — Sauron has sent his servants far. Nay, you had better wait until the ring is unmade, should it ever be so."

"Ring? Unmade?"

"I will speak no more of it. It is a matter of great secrecy." Even he did not know much of this ring, save for its journey to Mordor in order that it should be destroyed. Thindor had not been present at the Council. "Good night — you will want to sleep now, I suppose."

"I will try." A small smile touched the young mortal's lips, though it did not quite reach his eyes.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Translations:

 _nethig_ \- endearing term for 'sister'

 _ionneg_ \- my son

 _nana_ \- mum(my), endearing term for 'mother'

 _Ai na vedui_ \- Ah, at last

Name meanings (there's a lot of them…):

Demmedir - Hammerer

Hwestion - Son of Breeze

Ýrdes - River course woman

Muinith - Dear/beloved sister. An epessë given to Himelon's sister because he loves her that much!

Nibeniel - Daughter of Small One

Hey presto — a slightly more elf-centric chapter for those who wanted to see a little more depth of character in our old boy Himelon and his mates. If not depth of character, then at least a little backstory for my lovely readers. After checking my go-to site for Elvish customs, I discovered that only the Hobbits have Yule, and changed things accordingly. There was no information about whether Penninor was a cause for celebration, but I shall assume it is a high day for now.

Do please correct my Sindarin where it is incorrect. I am no scholar of the language and have no wish to be one.

Any unwontedly flowery vocabulary is most likely borrowed from the excellent writer Canafinwe, whose work on fanfiction . net I wholeheartedly recommend to you all.

God bless,

A.B.C.


	15. A Mild Surprise

_Brief note: Apologies for the slow updates. Can't promise them faster, but I'll try to finish the story as soon as possible. **~A.B.C.**_

* * *

There was a persistent buzzing within Thornhill's limbs that demanded to be addressed that morning. It wasn't the faint tremor that arose from a negligible night's sleep, for he had known that sort of feeling all too well lately. He wanted to move himself about and take a breath of fresh air. But it was bitterly cold outside.

Throughout the morning, the buzzing manifested itself as an irrational impatience, an irritability that had no clear cause — until he had the irrepressible urge to smash his head against a nearby wall. Thornhill groaned with utter despair. _What do I want_? It hounded him, that unspecified request that would never be granted. He wanted something, but he did not know what he wanted. He would forget it. He would don a cloak and boots and go tramping about in the woods, and ignore the cold.

* * *

"Bertie, I'm going tramping. D'you want to come with me?"

"In this cold?"

"You needn't come with me — but you might like to." Thornhill leant against the door-frame almost diffidently, as though he felt he was degrading it somehow.

"I reckon that my days spent in the cold air, catching my death, are quite behind me now, Ernest."

"Righto. Well, have a good morning, Bertie."

 _He's writing another one of those damned letters_ , mused Thornhill as he strode down the corridor to his own room. _Almost every time I see him, he's writing one of them_. Then, _perhaps I ought to write a letter or two_.

His cloak lay on the back of a wooden chair. It was made of a thick brown wool, with a brass clasp to keep it together — hardy, serviceable apparel, though still more likely to tear upon an errant tree-branch than an overcoat. Thornhill slung it about him, and the wool swung near the ground, billowing about his ankles. It was a cloak formerly worn by an Elf, and Thornhill's shoulders had always been a little narrow for one of his sex.

Thus accoutred, the young man went bravely out to face the biting chill. It was not as painful as he had feared, and he let loose a chuckle of invigoration as he took the first, burning breath. It shrivelled his nostrils. He didn't mind.

One notable thing about the walk _to_ the forest was that Himelon did not approach him, as the ellon always seemed to have done ever since they had made their acquaintances. In fact, exterior Imladris was a peaceful Imladris that day, for all the music and the work had retreated inside Lord Elrond's expansive halls. So Thornhill was alone. Again.

He really didn't mind.

The trees near the outskirts of Imladris were not a forest, for they were too few, and the area too small. Yet it was pleasant to walk about the sleek birches and the strong oaks, stripped of their leaves, inhaling the fiery air and exhaling fog, hearing the dull _crunch_ as his boots made contact with the earth and the chirping of the few birds that dared to show their feathers that day. Thornhill could now forget the tumult of his mind and the fact he was _not in England_ , dwelling instead on more pleasant memories of his short life.

Nobody disturbed him here, where the air came fresh and clear, much like the scrubby woodlands at the back of the vicarage. The irrational impatience which had niggled at the back of his mind receded, clearing his thoughts and elucidating his unexplained wants. _I'm wanting some exercise_ , mused Thornhill. _I_ miss _drill. I say, how funny that I miss marching 'round the square._ Having found an oak with branches stout enough to bear his weight, the young man swung himself up onto a relatively low-lying bough; he paid scant attention to his protesting shoulders, which felt as though they had been wrenched from their sockets.

The pain reminded him of something else. Lightly, he punched his left thigh, feeling it throb slowly beneath the puckered scar. Strange to think that this once was a wound that had infected, swelling his leg until it was twice its original size. Only barely could Thornhill remember the fierce pain that had been the only thing to punctuate his feverish haze then. If that damned Boche had not aimed his machine-gun in his direction, perhaps Thornhill would not have been here.

If he hadn't gotten that wound, perhaps he would be pacing up and down the duckboards on duty somewhere, waiting. Or — more likely — he'd be a rotting corpse in No-Man's-Land.

If he'd been assigned to another regiment, or even another company, perhaps he wouldn't have even had to fight at the Somme. He could have been attending a concert party in Paris, or even been on leave. On leave, wrestling with a starched collar — mufti was ridiculous after what seemed like a lifetime in a battledress tunic — readying himself for a night at the music hall.

If that Serbian lad hadn't shot down that damn Archduke, perhaps he wouldn't have even known Sandhurst. He would have begun study for a bachelor's at Oxford University, writing letters to his brother in Africa, the young curate who had made it his mission to spread the Good News around the world.

"ARGH!" Thornhill slipped backwards, nigh falling off the tree-branch. He clawed at the trunk, breaking several nails in the process. "That's enough thinking for _you_ to-day, Ernest. You're going back inside now."

* * *

Nibeniel flew into the smithy, accosting Himelon as he was shaping yet another dagger with a heavy iron hammer. "Father has come home!"

"I have work to do, Muinith, and I am loath to leave it. The metal is still malleable."

"Come, Himelon, you hide your joy not masterfully from me — surely, Demmedir will give you leave!"

"The metal is still malleable, Muinith." Himelon bit back a grin and stared forcefully at the still-glowing dagger upon the anvil. After all, he would be able to see his father that evening.

"You must ask."

"Very well," conceded Himelon, laying down his hammer and turning towards his master behind him at the furnace. "Demmedir—"

"You wish to meet your father outside?"

"Muinith bade me request leave to do so, Demmedir."

"You will be able to see him during the noon meal, will you not?"

"Ai — we have not seen him gone four weeks, Demmedir — adar will have a broken weapon for you to mend, surely—"

"Perhaps Glindir will surprise me this time." The tall smith chuckled: it had long been a source of laughter that Himelon's father ever returned from a sojourn in the wild with a chipped sword or a shattered bow. "You nevertheless have my leave, though you may rest in the knowledge that it shall not happen again."

"My thanks, Demmedir."

A small host of steeds and their travel-stained riders gathered in the yard, paying little heed to Himelon and Nibeniel. The sons of Elrond conversed in a solemn undertone with their father, no doubt over some new concern that had arisen during their four weeks away. The Lord of Imladris himself appeared weary, his eyes burdened more than ever by the wisdom and sorrow of ages past beneath the silver band upon his brow. Himelon turned away and wondered if his eyes would ever look like that — a thousand _în_ old.

Glindir he found speaking softly to his mount. His cloak was spattered with dried blood — orc-blood, Himelon hoped, and not his father's own — and it was torn at the corner besides, and the other was soaked thoroughly by mud. "Adar —"

Glindir swivelled his head about, no doubt looking for the speaker. Nibeniel smiled. "Adar, we are glad you have come back unhurt! Unless — there is some injury you hide beneath your cloak —"

"Not a scratch, I assure you." The ellon's countenance was no less weary than that of Elrond, though his eyes were not so aged, ever reflecting the steely gaze that he had been named for. Himelon could almost believe that his father could have been a fell warrior during the days of the Last Alliance, though the wry tales he told in the Hall of Fire ever signified otherwise.

"Nana will want to see you, adar," added Nibeniel, absent-mindedly stroking Glindir's mare on the nose. "She has been anxious for your welfare. Word has spread that Sauron's Orcs grow ever bolder, and that some now attempt to cross the Misty Mountains."

"Hush!" Glindir was severe in an instant. "You must not speak his name in this valley, while it is yet unsullied. But your mother has right to worry, sellig, though I tell her do not fear, for surely we can overcome this evil. Hey now!— do not look so solemn! Your father has returned at last, unwounded. Surely there is cause for laughter."

"Do you wish me to stable Peguiroch, adar?"

"My thanks, Himelon. I must speak with my company now, and I shall see you at the noon meal. No vaer i arad."

"No vaer i arad, adar. Truly, I am glad you have returned unhurt." Himelon strolled towards Peguiroch, Glindir's dappled mare, leaning into her head and whispering a quick greeting. The horse smelled musty — of rain and mud and much travel. She would be glad of rest, no doubt.

Peguiroch was stabled swiftly and comfortably, given hay to eat and curried, to Himelon's best ability. He knew the mare well: she had been Glindir's mount for years longer than Himelon's own. Yet it was with relief that he strode back to the smithy, back to the metal and the sharp _clang_ of hammer and anvil, sounds almost sweeter to him than those of his wooden flute.

* * *

"Blimey!"

"Yes, I know — topping, isn't it?"

"I wish you'd just let me go to lunch." Davies stared about himself, at the swords, the spears and the longbows that lined the walls of the weapons-room. "I don't see why you had to bring me here, of all places."

"Well — we ought to learn to defend ourselves, eh?"

"You have your revolver."

"Two rounds left. Won't be of much use — and you left your rifle in that field."

"Bet it's rusting itself to the rocks over there."

But Ernest had already begun to inspect a row of swords, even taking one out to swing. Unfortunately, the long blade with its leather-wrapped hilt had thrown him off his balance, and no sooner had he taken the sword out of its scabbard than he fell and dropped it, letting the metal clang deafeningly upon the flagstones.

"You bloody idiot! Someone'll come running now, just you wait!"

"This is hardly a secret affair," Ernest retorted from the floor, chagrined at the chastisement.

"All the same — I don't want some ellon peeping his head 'round the corner, thinking we're making away with something."

"They trust us well enough."

"You never know."

"Ai, leave me alone!"

Davies shook his head, biting back a self-satisfied smile as Ernest clumsily placed the sword into its scabbard and back upon the wall. The young man seemed to have learnt his lesson, and continued to browse the myriad weaponry on display as a little boy in a sweet-shop, though he did not so much as touch a single spear. Though he hated to admit it, Davies himself was fascinated by these antique cudgels that relied upon nothing but brute force in order to defeat one's enemy. The closest relative he knew would be the bayonet at the end of his rifle, which could be driven into the stomach of a Boche in a similar way to a polearm or a spear.

He was about to examine a finely-fletched arrow from one of the quivers in the corner, when a small shuffling noise emanated from the door. "I told you so, Ernest."

The young man said nothing, though he coloured abashedly as he turned towards the door. A particularly tall ellon, though worn and mudstained, came in, a sword and a short bow in hand. Upon seeing the two men, he nodded graciously, chuckling. "Please, do not stop upon my account."

"We were not —"

"I see." He hung his leather-encased sword on a nail in the wall, and his bow upon another. There was a pregnant silence that seemed to weigh upon the room.

"Do you fight?" asked Ernest suddenly. His voice sounded comically desperate, mispronouncing the _edhellen_ in his haste.

"In what way?" The ellon grinned. "Is this a challenge?"

"I mean — fight — battles. With —" Ernest swept his arm broadly across the room.

"I do take part in battles from time to time — why would you want to know?"

"What is the word for man who fights battles?"

The ellon gave him the word, but held his hand out. "Pedin annúnaid."

"I speak the Common Speech not well."

"Do you not?"

"I came here with my friend from another place; we speak a tongue that you do not know."

"I know many tongues. What is the name of yours?"

"English. My home is England. So is the home of my friend."

"Ínglis. That tongue I do not know. I speak the High-Elven speech, the Common Speech, Sindarin, and I have studied the language of Númenor. I know words from the tongue of the Naugrim besides, but your _Ínglis_ seems quite foreign to me."

"It is to everybody here. But you say you fight battles. I fight battles also. But with different things. I do not know use of these. You teach me?"

At this, Davies rolled his eyes massively. Ernest evidently did not know that his days spent drawing out battle-plans and suchlike were over, and that he ought to keep it that way. Davies was quite done with war. Ernest, it seemed, wasn't.

The ellon sighed. "Alas, I have duties to attend to, and I am ever coming and going. And should my father ever see reason to leave for a while, I am lord of this house until he returns. Were it not for that, I would gladly teach you. Ai, it has been a long time since I have taught anybody."

"I do not care if you — come and go. You can teach me a little?"

"I doubt it, young man."

"Oh — well —" He lapsed into English, biting his lip. "Thank you, anyway."

"Forgive me, what did you say?"

"Er — ni 'lassui —"

"Elladan." The ellon shrugged a shoulder, almost apologetically. "Son of Elrond Half-elven, if you must know."

"Thonel. Son of — er — Reverend Edward Thornhill."

Elladan looked a little bemused at this, but threw it off, ignoring a sniggering Davies in the corner. "Forgive me again, that I cannot teach you, Thonel." Then, to himself — "I suppose I will eat in my chamber today." He went back out of the weapons-room, leaving Davies to suppress a bout of laughter.

"What, may I ask, is so funny?"

"Son of — son of Reverend Edward Thornhill! Oh Ernest, you _are_ a scream sometimes."

"Oh, bloody hell," snarled the young man. "Let's get something to eat. I'm famished."

Davies knew better than to laugh any more, and contented himself with a smirk.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

În - 144 years. I am unsure about the plural of this — hence I substituted the singular form — and if anybody could help me in the reviews that would be fabulous. Thank you.

Pedin annúnaid - I speak Westron

Thornhill was going to drop the sword due to its weight, until I found out that a two-handed sword weighed less (!) than the SMLE in service during WWI. As an officer, Thorny probably wouldn't have touched a rifle, but I suppose 1.5kg isn't much for a soldier like him.

Corrected a fact in an earlier chapter. Turns out that the Fellowship left during quasi-December, not November. I have amended a sentence so that I can squeeze in a few chapters before Penninor.

 **A.B.C.**


	16. Not Quite Christmas

Thindor eased himself out of the hard-backed chair, blinking away the last vestiges of the night's vague dreams. Having rested his mind adequately, he glanced at the pale sheet of vellum upon the table, covered in his neat, solidly black script. This was the work of a scribe: Elrond had insisted that the happenings of the months previous should be written down and stored in his vast libraries — soon to decay into lore, then legend, and then myth.

After carefully rolling the vellum into a scroll, Thindor tied the article with a piece of string and placed it upon a shelf. This task was done, now. He would break his fast in the dining hall, and put his mind to other matters.

As Thindor walked through the corridors, he could not help but gladden at the gaiety with which the household deported itself, despite the sleet that fell in wet clumps from the sky. Sleet was maddening weather — it was not quite snow, yet did not fall with rain's regular roar that lulled one when one's mind was in turmoil. This sort of weather did not grace Imladris often. It then dawned upon Thindor that today was Penninor, and that there would be a feast that evening, followed by song in the Hall of Fire. He twisted his mouth and shook his head to himself — Thindor was rarely at ease when merry-making, preferring to sit in solitude, reading, working, or resting his mind as the edhellen do.

Yet he attended the feasts merely out of a sense of obligation and to preserve a sense of regularity. When one's years knew no number, they tended to fly past — one after the other — blurring into a long, torpid lifetime. This weariness of the world, which Thindor dreaded, had already begun to creep up upon him and his thousand-odd years. Yet this was the fate of the edhellen, and Master Erestor had once described it as a pair of blessed shackles. Erestor could be quite eloquent at times.

None of the ellyn and the ellith that passed him that morning felt that world-weariness, however. High days such as Penninor were for laughter and song, both of which staved off the weight of years much more efficiently than work of the hands and mind. Perhaps, with a few goblets of wine inside him, Thindor would be able to enjoy the music of the night.

"Good morrow, Thindor."

The ellon turned his head to find the lord of the household striding beside him. "Good morrow, Master Elrond — it is good that you are breaking your fast in the dining hall today. You are on your way to the great hall, are you not?"

"I see it fit to rest from my duties today, which have since prevented me from eating outside of my chambers." Elrond gave an uncharacteristically sardonic smirk. "Yet when the fate of Middle-Earth lies upon the shoulders of a hobbit, one can do aught else but prepare, should anything adverse befall us."

"You have said before, that the halflings are an uncannily hardy race, have you not, Elrond?"

"Yet I cannot put aside the thought that he is small, and may be easily overcome. I have faith, however, that young master Frodo will see it through."

Thindor fell silent at this, having not much knowledge of the situation regarding the ring that was to be taken to Mordor. Mordor, the land of ash and evil. That much Thindor knew. By this time, the two ellyn had reached the dining hall, and they parted ways: Elrond to the table upon the dais, over which he had not presided for a fortnight or so; and Thindor to a long table in the middle. There he took bread and fruit, proceeding to eat quickly and unobtrusively, as was his wont.

The hall itself hummed bee-wise with chatter, particular phrases or words in the Elven-tongue rising above it occasionally. Once, Thindor thought he heard the ungainly syllables of that strange tongue that Thonel spoke. Or was it Thonil? He could not quite remember the name of that man, for it did not rest well upon his tongue, and therefore did not stay in his head. Yes, there he was, conversing animatedly with his dark-haired friend, moving his arms about in the ostentatious fashion of the edain. Yet, somehow, his voice was still drowned by the omnipresent drone within the hall.

The noise was tiring, and Thindor exited, making his way back to the libraries. The darkness would be soothing to his eyes, the near-silence a balm to his ears. There he would find a light-hearted ditty to sing, should he be called upon that night. He did not own a fine voice by any measure of the Edhellim, but the night was long, and never did they tire of song — whether it be a newly written ode to the stars, or a long history such as the Lay of Leithian.

An elleth with ink-stained fingers was hastily scribbling upon a sheet of parchment in a chair by Thindor's favoured shelf as he found it. It was Mélil, a student of Lindir with whom Thindor had forged a fond friendship. "Will you sing tonight?"

"Lindir is insistent upon it. He bade me write a ballad for the purpose."

"You are now one of his most senior charges, are you not?"

"Ay, that I am." Mélil smiled up at Thindor, putting down her pen.

"You write your songs?"

"I am fickle; my mind will change. Sometimes I will return to a previously discarded idea. Writing is paramount to me, Thindor."

"You are a strange one, Mélil."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, you are." The ellon peered over her shoulder at the hastily-written tîw upon the parchment. "Ai, and this is hardly writing — your bows have collapsed in upon themselves, and the stems are crooked."

"So they are. I have no need whatsoever to painstakingly write and illuminate histories as you do," Mélil replied.

"I work alongside one of the greatest loremasters of this Age."

Mélil turned now to her song again, whisper-singing the words, mouth curving into a smile of satisfaction. "That will do, I believe. And no," she said, as Thindor's mouth moved, "I will not sing it to you now. Not here, anyhow."

"I'll wait patiently until tonight, mellon." Thindor took a thick book — bound tightly with rough, brown cloth — from a shelf, and began to read.

* * *

By the time the sun went down, Thornhill had realised that the night was the proper time for celebration here. Though more of the edhellen walked the hallways, and Himelon was released from his duties in the forge, it was generally business as usual until sunset. Another hint at the festivities that were to happen that night was a new set of clothes that had been fitted especially to Thornhill's comparatively short stature.

In fact, it was Bertie who insisted upon that. During one of his visits to the smithy — a visit where Thornhill had not been present — Aduialion had told him about Penninor, the last day of the year. According to Bertie, Aduialion had said something about a feast and the Hall of Fire. Within the latter, there would be songs and poetry all night. Bertie had promptly taken Thornhill with him to a tailor of the edhellen, and had asked her to measure a set of nice clothes for the young man and himself.

Now, these clothes had arrived, sitting proudly upon the chair that Thornhill used to hold his garments. He tried them on: tunic and hose fit remarkably well, considering that the tailor-elleth had used nothing but a long piece of wool with knots tied at hand-breadths to take his measurements. The surcoat was made of a heavy material, dark blue in colour, interspersed with bits of silver thread that looked like stars. His tunic was also blue, but of a lighter shade, and made of a finer cloth than the two tunics he normally wore; the hose were white and did not bag at his ankles.

Most likely he'd spoil them all during the feast.

Bertie entered the room just then, clad in finery of his own. His brown tunic reached significantly below his knees — to compliment his pittance of five feet and five inches, the man said disparagingly — and his surcoat was red, topped by a finely embroidered collar. Thornhill sniggered. "You look like a mediaeval lord, Bertie."

"So do you."

"Yes, we both look rather silly. I say, what _wouldn't_ I give for a pair of trousers and a waistcoat?"

"Don't forget the flower in your buttonhole."

"Hah." Thornhill rubbed a corner of his surcoat between his thumb and forefinger. "This feels like a tapestry."

"Well, and are we going to the feast, or not?"

"Of course."

* * *

There was wine, and Thornhill grinned. It had been a bloody long time since he'd had wine. Yes, there had been rum, whisky and the occasional drop of champagne in France — as well as beer in the estaminets — but a glass of good, red wine he had not drunk in a long time. Wine here was sipped from crystal goblets, and served from tall decanters. He glanced at Bertie, who in the meantime had already taken a drink. "Is the wine good?"

"Good, and heavy. Don't drink too much at once, young man."

"I shan't, Bertie," laughed Thornhill, taking his goblet and swirling the contents. Indeed, the wine seemed to emanate intoxicating fumes already.

As for victuals, there were roast meats and giant tureens filled with vegetables and stew alongside the usual light fare of bread and fruit. At one end of the table was a whole pig, complete with an apple inside the mouth. Why, that was Christmas dinner — and yet, there was more food —

Thornhill buried himself into a helping of beef stew, rather overwhelmed by this unfair onslaught. The stew was excellent. He really couldn't complain.

Opposite him, a few places down, two ellith were talking animatedly — Thornhill heard something about _dore-weeneeon_ , and the two women bandied about numbers up into the thousands. One of them, a dark, slim elleth with short, straight eyelashes, swirled her goblet about, took a sip from it, and frowned a little. Shaking her head, she said something, before handing her goblet over to an ellon two seats across to taste. Then, having tasted the wine, the ellon pronounced something that evidently was to the elleth's favour — she grinned in a satisfied way, much to the chagrin of her companion.

"Bertie — those women, there — d'you know what they're doing?"

Bertie looked up with a start. "I don't know —" he looked at the pair, who were now tucking comfortably into their meal, having settled their debate "— why, they must have been tasting the wine."

"You, mean, what sort it is, and what date?"

"Yes. I don't know much about wine, except that it gets one blotto after too many glasses."

"Blotto?"

"Drunk."

"Oh." Thornhill turned back to his stew, which, in the meantime, was growing cold. He hadn't touched his wine yet, meaning it for later. Bertie, however, had nearly finished his first gobletful, and was preparing to pour himself another.

The atmosphere was certainly very light-hearted: almost everybody was talking, and those who did not talk were eating. Conversation consisted of topics such as the food, the wine, and what sort of songs there would be later. Christmas-dinner talk.

Yet it was not quite Christmas.

The hall was decorated with fir-boughs — that was its winter apparel. Candles glowed with bright yellow flames — they were needed to see one's food. It was so _queer_ to see the lack of Christmas jollity, when even in the trenches there had been carols to sing, and paltry gifts to give. Thornhill disliked it.

Elrond sat upon the high table, a jewel upon his brow. There was a son either side, one clad in violet, the other, red. They wore filigrees about their heads also, proud and handsome, their almost-black hair plaited behind them. Lord Elrond's daughter was yet more beautiful, and Thornhill had to look away, his cheeks burning unexpectedly. He would taste some of the wine — the wine, at least, would be excellent.

"Thonel!"

"Who —" Thornhill craned his neck, finding yet another dark-haired elleth beside Davies. _Bloody hell, they all look the same — how am I supposed to tell who's who?_ He remembered her voice, however. It must have been — "Silevel! I am — very surprised!"

"Why would you be?"

"I — I have not seen you for a long time —"

"You seemed to manage your writing very well."

"Well — I —" He paused, guiltily. "Truth, Silevel, I did other things — that were not writing."

"I am still willing to teach you, Thonel, if you wish me to."

"Perhaps. When I — think more." In reality, Thornhill had not given much thought to his writing lessons, much less the Common Speech, for several weeks. There were simply much more important things that had occupied his mind. The past. The future. Anything but _now_. Anything but bloody Common Speech. Suddenly, his food did not taste so good, and the gaiety of the feast dimmed. Thornhill swore under his breath. This was _not_ supposed to happen, not at all. This was edhellen-Christmas, for goodness' sake!

As though it were pure animal instinct, Thornhill took his goblet and quaffed its contents in one gulp. It was travelling to his head already: a smile spread across his face, and he forgot whatever had unsettled him a few moments previously. _Ah, edhellen-wine. Better than rum._ Still grinning, he leaned across the table and began to make conversation, heeding not the occasional sacrilegious slips he made in his grammar, nor his abominable English accent.

* * *

Surprisingly, Master Elrond had led the first song of the night. He had sung a historic ballad that he had first heard in his youth — a youth from ages past. One or two joined in: Glorfindel, and Lindir, of course. But the rest had stayed silent for the most part.

Elrond's voice was a rich baritone, a clearer timbre than that of the Edain, and it did not rumble like the Naugrim. He sang honestly, with little flair. În of wisdom seemed to have made their mark on Elrond in everything he did, and singing no less.

After a few sober pieces to send off the year gone by, Lindir struck up a ditty upon his harp, and so began the evening proper. There were songs about myriad subjects: the sun and the stars, lore from the First Age, and celebrations of heroes that may or may not have sat among the singers. Silevel herself led a few cantos of the Lay of Eärendil, though her memory failed her after a while. The wizened perian, uncle of the one who had left a few weeks prior, sang a few things of his own composition.

Then came the songs of Lindir's students. By this time, Silevel's mind was wandering, and her eyes began to alight on various people in the room. There was Erestor, a goblet of wine in his long hands, in the midst of a discussion with two ellyn. Elrond's sons, on the other hand, listened attentively to the music. One would occasionally lean towards the other and make a discreet comment about said music, and the other would smile. An ellith across the room from Silevel fidgeted with the edge of her kirtle, her eyes closed. She would be going through each canto in her head, matching the pitch to the words.

And then there were the edain, quite close to the walls. Silevel had accustomed herself to their appearance so — it was almost if they were of the edhellim themselves, now. But not quite. She caught herself with an upward twitch of the lips. The shorter one — Béti, supposed his name was — hearkened with an easy enjoyment that told her he had heard this music before.

Thonel, however — face flushed with wine's high colour — looked as though his eyes were staring inwards. _He_ was recovering from some sort of rapture — the type that clutched the edain as they listened to elven-song. There was one other man whom she had seen with that stunned countenance, and that was the Man from Gondor: the one who allegedly had been brought up to believe that the edhellen were naught but myth and legend.

Silevel did not know how long the night lasted. The men had left after a while, tiring of the song. She had slipped out of the door, too, her head heavy with lays and ditties and the ringing of the harp. It was unlike her to weary so easily, collapsing onto her bed, her vision blurring into the soft dreams of the Elves. The voices of the household of Elrond chased her to sleep.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

în - a period of 144 years. The plural form is the same as the singular form.

perian - hobbit

Names

Mélil - Pollen

Something tells me there's not enough drama at the moment, yet we're not at the right point where drama can be included. I am also unsure about whether some of my sentences make sense. Thoughts, reviewers?

Also, please bear with me during the feast scenes. I assume there's some room for artistic license regarding the cutlery and so forth. Though, perhaps, not the speed of the wine travelling up to Thornhill's head.

Happy New Year!

 **A.B.C.**


	17. Ernest's Mission II

Thornhill's rear end throbbed painfully as he stumbled down the three stairs that led into the weapons-room. Despite the rather frightful headache that last night's wine had given him — though he had not been highly inebriated, he hadn't really drunk anything else — the young man had sat on Daeroch for an hour, straight, keeping her at a steady trot about the paddock, occasionally breaking into a canter. The constant jolting had put his head through hell — Thornhill had nearly stopped to be sick, at one point — but he had told himself firmly that he would be spending over thrice this time in the saddle, four weeks gone.

Next would be a weapon. From what Thornhill gathered, a few here in Imladris had a sword to call their own. Some even _named_ them. _Imagine calling my revolver_ Edith _, or_ Lizzie — _how queer._ He had thought about this oddity for a while. _Well, they name their ships in the Navy._

There were a few bows, but, as the young man had noticed the first time, there was a much larger array of swords and spears. He had a good stare at the racks. Well, swords couldn't be too hard to use. It was simply a question of stabbing the enemy in the gut. After all, there was none of this silly trigger business, no making sure to empty the magazine after every round fired — and they were _much_ easier to clean.

He began to lift each sword out of its scabbard, testing the weight, ensuring that he wouldn't lose balance as he swung. Having found a sword vaguely to his liking, Thornhill exited the room, flushing a little as an elf walked by and stared pointedly at the ungainly weapon in his hands. After that small incident, he tried to carry his prize as surreptitiously as possible.

Imladris being quite in the depths of winter yet, there were no subtle hints that might help Thornhill find a place in order to practise. Was practise the right word? He really had no notion of how one was to learn how to use a sword. Perhaps he would stab a straw-filled sack, or something of the like. _I shan't ask anybody, if I can help it._ Then, _I want to go—_

Sternly, he repressed that thought, shouldering open the door to an empty room within the household. Now was not the time to whine.

The space was not terribly crowded, though Thornhill could have made a better choice. There was no telling whether there would be a room as empty as this, however. Pushing chairs to the walls and re-arranging furniture would most likely give him room to swing. There was nothing to stab, however. He sighed. His surcoat would have to do. Rolling it into a ball, he placed it upon one of the stiff-backed chairs by the window.

And now, for the next conundrum. How was he to approach this sword? Aggression would certainly be needed, though bawling obscenities — _Filthy Hun_ , _Krauts_ , and much, much worse — like young Tommy Atkins at bayonet practice, was perhaps not the best solution, considering an innocent elleth could walk in at any moment to hear the ugly ululations. Yes, he'd keep silent.

Unsheathed, Thornhill's weapon of choice was long and slim, tarnished in flecks, but not completely unusable. He gave a few half-hearted swings, and found the sword unnaturally long for its relatively light weight. After the swings came the stabs at the surcoat — clumsy, but they hit their mark eventually. Thornhill would refine his technique later.

"This is a sitting room, not an open field, I believe."

Thornhill started. "I — beg your pardon —"

"We do not ordinarily spar during the winter-time," replied the voice, a husky tenor. "Though, there are a few exceptions. If I am correct, Glorfindel pays no heed to rain or shine."

There was no mistaking that voice — Thornhill had not heard an ellon speak as hoarsely as Ólon, the tall smith.

"You are very clumsy."

"I have never used this before."

"You have never used a sword?"

"Never."

"I will excuse your abysmal technique, then. Were you not taught to defend yourselves in the lands you hail from?"

"Oh, yes. But not with sword."

"With tree-branches and rude cudgels, troll-fashion, then." Ólon chuckled at his own joke.

"Guns."

"Gann?"

"It is too — I cannot explain." _Guns. I'm a bloody idiot._

"If that is the case, then do help me to put these chairs back to their rightful places."

Thornhill obliged, wishing he had not made this spectacular blunder.

* * *

"A Himelon! Is this a new friend?"

Himelon found Béti walking along the corridor while on his way to his chambers. He was to part with his father soon, and wished to leach out as much talk as possible about the evil in the south-east. "He is my father, Béti. Adar, Béti is an acquaintance of mine."

"He is not the strange Man that I succoured the previous summer, returning after a sojourn in the wild?"

Himelon started, suddenly disoriented by the unexpected revelation. "Indeed? You have not told me of that episode."

"I did not deem it of sufficient importance, ionneg."

Béti piped up then. "Mae govannen, _mesta_ —"

"What is a _mesta_?"

"I enethen Glindir. Mae govannen, Master Béti." Glindir nodded graciously. "I do believe you were that man — I remember clearly your queer manner of speech. You spoke to me in a tongue that I did not know."

The man laughed heartily, evidently at a slowly resurfacing memory. "You were — brusque with me. To say the less. But I thank the Edhellim here for teaching me their tongue, because it is much simpler. Now."

"Brusque?"

"You were."

Himelon noticed that his father had grown silent — offended, no doubt, lips tight. Eyes glinting dangerously, and fiercely. Yet he answered, and his voice was of the conversational type. "I apologise — it had been a long stay in the wild. I had grown weary."

"You have my forgiveness." Béti grinned, his eyes twinkling merrily yet. "Himelon — I wish to speak to you. Over Thonel."

"Over Thonel?"

"Well — over us."

"Indeed?" Then — "do you wish to speak privately?"

"There is no _need_ —"

"Well, then, we may speak here."

"Not here. In a room."

"In that case, you _do_ wish to speak privately." There was something in Béti's manner that Himelon couldn't quite place: the man was fidgeting now, he could see that — yet he did not seem altogether concerned.

"Your father may hear too — he may — add words."

 _Add words_. Father turned to him, his brows knitted, mystified. Himelon undertook the task of steering the man and his father to his chambers, sitting the former down upon an armchair, while the latter leaned against the mantelpiece. It was a small, neat sitting-room, with a half-empty bookcase in the corner, walls papered in pale green and a window looking out to the frothing Bruinen.

Béti took a quick breath. "Thonel wishes to leave Imladris, and he is quite bent on it. I am not so keen, yet I must leave with him."

The following silence was thick — pregnant, almost, with the awkwardness and the uncertainty and the quick stab of fear that Himelon saw run through his father's heart. His own reciprocated, beating a brief tattoo against his breast, though he did not see the reason why. "What is the need to consult with—"

"—you cannot and must not leave, on any account, Béti."

"It is Thonel, and not I, who wishes to depart."

"It matters not. It is out of sheer luck that you are yet alive."

"I have been safe—"

"And that is why. Had I not taken you from Rhudaur, your companion feverish with his festering leg, you would have wandered far. And once your luckless companion would have died, you would have had nothing to help you. The Misty Mountains are swarming with orcs, and other foul servants of the Enemy. You would have been killed, and cruelly at that."

"I do not understand."

"Father, he is not yet so well-versed in the Elven-tongue—"

"Do not leave this haven. Master Elrond is powerful yet, and we will make war upon Sauron and his emissaries. You cannot overcome the Darkness yourself."

"What is this 'Darkness'?" Béti looked from Himelon to his father, colour receding already from his cheeks.

"If you value your life, you will not wander far from Imladris. The servants of the Enemy fear us yet."

"Adar, will they not attack us when there is nothing left? That is what I have heard, anyhow."

At this, Glindir lost the fierce flash of light in his eyes. "Ay, they will, ionneg," he replied, voice ragged. "But we are safe for a long while yet." There was another long, unbearable silence, and Himelon felt his chest tremble with his father's proclamation. Béti stared confusedly, struck dumb with Glindir's ferventness.

But as Himelon made to speak, his father raised his head, composure — had he even lost it? — restored. "Now come — we can muster some cheer now, can we not? Béti, you must impart my advice vehemently to your friend. No vaer i arad."

"That, I believe," Himelon whispered into Béti's ear, "is his way of saying, _kindly leave me now_."

The man nodded and trotted his way out speedily.

* * *

The tea was sweet and strong, just the way Davies liked it, the leaves still floating about in the bottom of the pot. Now, if he leaned back in his chair _just so_ , and inhaled the bitter, almost acrid steam from his cup, he could imagine himself back at home. He was doing very well, today — he'd tricked himself into smelling one of Gertrude's roasts, and the footsteps coming into his room could have just been the light step of his daughter, until a man's voice broke into his reverie and ruined it all.

"Mind if I join you? I haven't had proper tea in so long —"

"Yes, yes. Evidently, the kitchens do know what real tea is, and make it capitally," replied Davies grumpily. Breaking into his imagination did make him irritable.

Ernest took a very convenient second cup and poured it to the brim. "I say, you _were_ expecting me, weren't you. There's much more in the pot than I'd expect you to finish yourself."

"Oh, no. That was there in case you came along, which you did."

"Well — how kind of you." He sipped from the cup, head lolling back in ecstasy as he did so. "Topping stuff. I've missed it."

"Nothing like a good cup o' tea. Here, there's biscuits, too. Freshly baked. The cooks wanted rid of 'em, weren't satisfied with the way they came out the oven. Too burnt, they said." Davies picked one from the pile on the platter, examining edges that were indeed a little brown. "They're well-cooked, but I wouldn't say _burnt_."

"And you snaffled them up, like the opportunistic prig you are."

"Like the opportunistic prig I am, yes."

For a while, there was no further need to talk. The pile of biscuits went down, and the men quaffed their tea greedily, as one starved when one is presented with substantial fare. It had been weeks since they'd tasted tea. All that was missing, pronounced Ernest, was a drop of whisky. Davies acquiesced: whisky deepened the flavour of the tea, he said, and gave one a bit of courage besides. But they didn't need courage here, with the sun streaming lazily through the window in a prelude to spring, despite the fact that spring was a good two months away yet, and the white curtains fluttering at the casement, and strains of song coming in through the half-open door _and_ the window.

"I don't see why you'd want to leave here, Ernest. It's just so — peaceful. A body would cling to it, not run away." It slipped out of his mouth before Davies had thought of saying it. But Ernest looked impassive enough.

"Where on earth did you hear I wanted to leave?"

"I know you do."

"Well, I don't."

"Oh." Davies poured himself another cup. "Well, with all this rushing about, horse-riding, and complaining about how damned boring it is here, I'd think otherwise."

"I ought to keep myself occupied, don't you think?"

"I'm not opposing your keeping yourself occupied — it's just — it's unsafe."

"That is the bloody silliest thing I have ever heard."

"Well —" A hot flush was creeping up his neck, strangling his throat and mind, ridding himself of the words to say it exactly. "I — talked to Glindir. You know, Himelon's old man." Old man. It didn't fit Glindir at all. "Himelon's father. And he said, something about darkness and this chap called Sauron and his servants. Something evil. In short, he told me that there's no way we can get out of Imladris without dying."

"Oh, God help us." Ernest rolled his eyes heavenwards. "I find it exceedingly hard to believe him. Who is this Sauron?"

"I don't know. Glindir seemed to know what he was going on about."

"Silly old fossil." A chuckle ripped loose, no effort made to stifle it. Davies found that his hand was clenching much too hard upon the handle of his teacup, and tried to loosen the grip. _Calm down_ , he told himself. _Control yourself_.

"He is sort of a fossil, isn't he. Can't say how old Glindir is, but I assume very."

Ernest snorted at that, though Davies couldn't fathom why. The joke really had not been that funny, especially considering the fact that he was in no mood to laugh whatsoever, now. Too quickly for his liking, he reached for a biscuit and bit into it violently, spraying crumbs down his front. _Oh, damn it_.

"Are you quite alright, Bertie?" Damn it again! Ernest had noticed, too.

"Yes, I am. But —" and he rode another teacup-clenching wave of annoyance, "— you oughtn't make something small of it. It's real. Glindir said so."

"Bows and arrows can hardly be as deadly as machine-guns and their bullets. We'd manage perfectly, you and I, with my revolver."

"And what if you ran out of rounds? I hain' — haven't — got my rifle. It's in that wilderness, remember?"

"Well, I'd — whack 'em with a tree branch."

"It's like the War, Ernest. Don't stick your head up above the parapet unless you've orders to go over the top, because it'll be blown to bits."

There was a thick silence at that. But Ernest spoke up after a while. "This isn't the War."

"Why, I thought you missed it — tramping about in the freezing cold, testing out all of Imladris' weapons store —"

"Oh, for goodness' _sakes_!" Ernest's cup clattered onto its saucer, spilling what remained of his tea. It spread out in brownish blotches upon the small linen cloth that decorated the side-table, spoiling its pure whiteness until the next wash. Davies saw that his companion's hands were beginning to shake, even as they balled into fists at his sides. "I can't stand this anymore. You're not my father. You're not old enough to be my father. Why do you treat me like your damn son? Last time I remember, _I_ was the one with the pips on my shoulder and _I_ gave you the commands, and _you_ carried them out without question!"

"That was roughly a million miles away from here," pointed Davies out coolly. "And consider the fact that I had hundreds of recruits to bellow at for two years, having joined the army in nineteen-ten. You joined with the majority of the lot in fourteen."

"I don't know what the army has to do with it."

"Well, for heaven's sake, you're the one who brought it up —"

"How on earth am I meant to forget it?" By now, Ernest had stood, positively vibrating, evidently speechless with anger. Except — Davies thought he looked more desperate than angry. How and why he had gone from laughing his head off to positively apoplectic within five minutes was beyond him, however, and he brushed the biscuit-crumbs off his front twitchily. Waiting.

"I'll clear away." His voice was tight now. Cups and saucers clinked as they were loaded negligently onto the tray, and two biscuits fell onto the table as the platter flew in his hands. Davies was forced to wince as Ernest lifted the tray and bore it away, the porcelain rattling as though it would fall and break any second. His surcoat swirled behind the young man as he stalked out. To his credit, he did not slam the door.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thornhill was not insensate the night before — he had a hangover rather because he did not have any water that night, as he should have done.

'Mesta' is 'mister' in Sindarin phonetics, as best as I can reproduce it.

Good day,

 **A.B.C.**


	18. Of Long Nights and Small Comforts

_Galu, adar,_ Himelon had said, as he had handed his father his sword in its unobtrusive, brown scabbard, and his bow, carved so that a vine seemed twining itself about the polished yew. Inwardly, he had wished that his father would lift him up by the armpits and kiss him upon the brow, as he had done in years long gone. But Himelon nigh overtopped his sire now, having grown to his full height roughly twenty years prior. The small company of five, led by the sons of Elrond, had trotted from Imladris, leaving him alone in the yard.

For a moment, the entire world seemed to have gone silent, and he had felt alone — abandoned, even —

And then Himelon had turned away and strode to the forge. Thoughts of his father were helpfully obscured by the strident _clang_ of hammer and anvil, and he was caught in the snares of the chatter of his friends, when conversation could be snatched. Demmedir had instructed him to fashion a longsword. His first attempt had been crude and unlovely at best.

He sat somewhat disconsolately now, absently fingering this longsword, with its slightly crooked blade and stunted pommel — that which he had longed to make, thinking it would mark his increasing prowess in wielding the hammer and tongs. Yet as he watched his friend Aduialion at work, or Iúlchon, he saw that their blows fell surely onto the workpiece, as though the practice was natural to them. His own way of working, by contrast, seemed stiff and contrived, yielding something that would serve its function, but did not please the eye.

Himelon resented it.

And he resented how his skills were gathered only by constant repetition — nigh on twenty-five years of it — making the same things over, and over, and over, making him ashamed of his own sheer mediocrity. Demmedir kept him at work with a patience that must have bested the wisest of his kind, knowing that he was not Faenor of days long past. And yet —

Himelon twitched at a sudden pressure on his shoulders, only to find his sister behind him, quiet. "What ails you?"

"Nothing of note, nethig."

"You are troubled; you are not usually abroad at this hour."

Heaving a heavy sigh, Himelon toyed with the longsword and did not answer.

"Is it father?"

"Ay, that too. There are other matters that plague me more, however."

"I am sorry to hear so, hanareg. Offload what plagues you onto me, and it will plague you half so much." Nibeniel gave Himelon's shoulders a squeeze.

"I cannot, for such troubles sound trite when aired out in the open. I will waste your time."

"Indulge not too long in sadness, then."

Himelon leaned back into his chair, and wished that his sister would leave him alone to brood for a while, having not the gumption to ask her outright to leave him. However discreet Nibeniel was, the ellon found her presence a nuisance at the present moment.

The night was still about him; the mantlepiece threw a long, faint shadow, blackest where a pale square of moonlight floated below the window. Nibeniel would not go, but stood unflinchingly behind Himelon's chair, her hands remaining upon his shoulders. "The Sons of Elrond have not been slain by their sojourns in the Wild."

"But they have not returned uninjured."

"That is true, yet we are not slain so easily as the edain. Our father will be spared, surely."

"Yes, I know — yet — should there be great conflict —"

"Gracious, what do you mean?"

"They speak of it — of mustering forces — as they did at the Last Alliance." Himelon looked to his lap, where the sword lay innocently. Seized with an irrational fit of annoyance, he let it fall to the ground. "I fear for our father. That is all."

"As do I, though I know he will be safe. There will be no need to muster forces as great as you fear they will be, hanareg. You worry overmuch."

 _I cannot help it_ , thought Himelon glumly, and picked up the sword with an air that could have suggested penitence. Pushing his chair back, the ellon took the misbegotten weapon and placed it by the bookshelf in the corner, so that it lay wreathed in shadow — where he would think of it no more.

"Will you rest now, Himelon?"

He turned about. Nibeniel stood now by the window, staring wistfully towards the night. Imladris seemingly slept, for there was no light save that of the waxing moon ahead. It was lonely outside, and nearly silent, for the whirring song of the crickets was not to be heard; if one opened the window, there would be a faint strain of a fair voice dissipating into the darkness, singing a song whose words even Himelon's sharp Elven ears would not be able to catch.

"I will rest, nethig, if it lightens your own burdens. I know you carry many, though I cannot guess at what they are."

"Ni 'lassui." And finally, his sister turned to vacate the room, leaving a heavy silence that made Himelon wish that she would return. Yes — he would make her return. He could not stand the silence. It bored into his eardrums.

"Nibeniel!" He called her in a strained whisper.

"What is it, hanareg?"

"Come back. Stay with me a while, sister mine."

"You surely will not stay abroad for long —?"

It was spoken truthfully. "I — do not like the silence. Stay, and speak to me."

"If you so wish."

It was small comfort, to be diverted from his troubles by a little conversation, for night has a way of magnifying small fears into indomitable phobiæ, until morning comes and sunlight banishes them. Yet Himelon found himself, head in his sister's lap, drowsing into hazy dreams, as she combed her fingers through his hair — catching Ithil's light, turning it into a sort of spun silver — and recited some sort of tale. Surfacing for a moment from his drowse, he murmured, "I feel — as though I were a mere stripling again."

"It was the only way your tears could be assuaged. When it was not I, it was your mother."

But he had fallen under again.

* * *

 _Crash_. Davies awoke. He had been dreaming of taking tea with the King, who had somehow morphed into Lord Elrond of Imladris, before getting into a positive rage and flinging the tea-tray off the table. And the resulting cacophony had sat Davies straight up in bed.

But it was only the door, flung open clumsily by somebody who could not see too well in the dark. The figure stumbled about, before finally finding its legs. Of course it was Ernest. Davies leaned into the headboard of his bed, letting his eyes fall closed again, wondering what on earth the young man was doing awake at this time of night. An unevenly trembling hand touched his shoulder tentatively. "Bertie? Bertie? Are you awake?" The whisper, at least, was steadier than the hand.

"Yes — you woke me up." Davies was aware that his voice was slurred with sleep, each word falling drunkenly into the next. "Wha's wrong wi'you?"

"I — I won't trouble you if — if you want to sleep —"

"Well, I'm awake now, so trouble away," replied Davies crossly, his tongue less clumsy now.

"It — it's just —" The voice stopped abruptly. "I can't get back to sleep."

"What woke you up?"

"I just wanner — I wanner — make sure I'm in Imladris, and not in those blasted trenches."

"You had a dream?"

"I —"

"A nightmare."

"Yes."

"A nightmare about the trenches."

The words seemed to pour out of poor Ernest after that, and Davies leaned back again, feeling the weight of sleep upon his temples and his eyelids. "I was leading an attack. I don't know where — or when — or _how_ — but I was leading an attack — or a raid, I can't remember. They _are_ the same thing, aren't they? Bullets were whistling past me. One grazed my face. But I wasn't wounded badly, funnily enough.

"So I kept on going, my revolver in my hand, shouting myself raw in the throat. We got to the Boche trenches eventually — with enough of the raiding party left to snatch a few prisoners. I just stayed in a shell-hole somewhere — to bellow the orders, as you know. Mathews, my pal, was the officer leading the men _into_ the trench, and he dashed in directly. The machine-guns were still going; the bullets were flying everywhere. When Mathews came back out again, he came back out with roughly half the men that went in, but he'd bundled up two of the Boche. He was carrying one, and two of the men the other.

"He nearly got back to me. Ever so nearly. Next thing I knew, a bullet had gone bang into his head, and he falls half-dead at my feet, the Boche prisoner under him. And just my luck: a barrage started — a barrage from our side, even — and we were trapped in that God-forsaken shell-hole for what seemed like an age. I — I sat there — and watched Mathews die —" Here he paused, and Davies opened one eye to see him sitting at the side of his bed, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I watched Mathews die — and when he went out — I lifted him off the prisoner, who I'd forgotten about, lying there. Just me and that Boche prisoner, and the shells whistling and banging about above me. I had to get him to Battalion headquarters, this Boche, who was bleeding down the side of his face, looking like a piece of misery. He couldn't have been much older than me. And then — a shell hit the bit of trench right behind us —"

"That's awfully clear for a dream."

"I saw it all." Thornhill took a deep breath. "I — I was there — I just — had to come here — to convince myself that it was — just a _dream_."

Davies did not know what to say at this, and kept his mouth wisely shut, toying with the half-formed thought of introducing some light into the bedroom. It was quite dark, and he did like to see the face of the other half of a conversation.

"I shan't be sleeping for a while."

"That's all right."

"I'm so bloody tired." Ernest's voice trembled a little now.

"Why would you be?"

"Well — I've had this dream last night, and the night before, and the night before that —"

"Bloody hell —"

"— it just wears on your nerves, Bertie." He paused. "My nerves are battered to bits."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself." Ernest's voice had sounded so small, and something in Davies contracted and hardened, forcing out that brusque reply. It was with a considerable shock that the thirty-two-year-old man realised that he _pitied_ his friend. Pitied! Pity had long been discarded in favour of more reasonable emotions, and here it came again, only to be restrained.

Meanwhile, Ernest was looking down at his hands, starkly striped by the moonlight coming in through the window. There wasn't much — the moon was not full, as far as Davies could tell. But he could see glints of wetness on the young man's eyelashes, little dots of reflected light that betrayed Ernest's 'battered' nerves. The eyelashes themselves were of medium length — on the short side, perhaps, sticking straight out. The eyelashes of a boy.

"I was working in the presses when I was a young man like you." Davies could not think of anything of a vaguely comforting nature to say. "Printing newspapers, I believe."

Silence, save for a quiet inhale from Ernest.

"Yes, I printed the _Daily Mail_. For almost eleven years. It paid me well enough."

"Eleven?"

"Went there straight after I left school. I was glad to go — I must have spent half my life at school with stripes on my rear end and behind my knees."

Something not unlike a laugh came from Ernest's mouth, though it was rough and wet, and any humour behind it dissipated quickly, along with the noise.

"Somewhere along the way, however, I'd found that a good pint of beer in the evenings made my working day much more tolerable. I can't remember exactly how, but I got too fond of it and a few months after marrying my Gertrude, I wasn't printing the Daily Mail any longer."

"Hm."

"I spent nearly two years in a funk after that — got more and more fond of the beer, too. Gertrude was at her wits' end, with me trying to find work and that. I regretted marrying her. Felt ashamed. But in nineteen-ten, I remembered the Boer War, and the recruiting offices, and took the King's Shilling. That cured me of my love of drink — if nothing else did."

"You joined up _before_ the War?"

"Yes — I am — well, was, I should say now — a very old hand." It then dawned upon Davies that he was quite awake, and would not mind a midnight conversation in the slightest. "Enough of me — what with your family?"

"Oh! Well — nothing interesting to say about me, really."

"You went to Sandhurst," Davies pointed out.

"That made me ever-so-slightly the laughing stock of the company. Wakefield was always ribbing me about it. Moore was outright derisive — till he popped his clogs, that is."

"And your family? You mention your Tom — older brother, is he?"

"By about four years. Father's not too proud of him — Tom managed to wrangle his way into a mission to Africa just as the War started. Thinks he's a conscientious objector, I suppose. Lucky sod."

"He certainly is."

"I wasn't surprised. He was always soft and saintly. Hated rugger — never was made Captain of anything in the fifth form. But Tom always kept a look-out for me at school, anyhow, even if he hated games."

"Good lad."

Suddenly, Ernest started. "I say — we'll be talking till the sun comes up, if I don't stop now! I had better catch some sleep before stand-to. Cheero —"

"Good lord, Ernest! You're sitting on a damn feather-bed! Wake up!"

"Oh—"

"Yes. Go back to bed. I'll see you in the morning." Davies shunted the young man off his feet and slid back under the blankets, drowsiness returning and forcing his eyelids shut. He did not know how long he slept after that, but he woke to the wet thrumming of rainfall and the busy sounds of feet and rustling surcoats outside his room. Ernest had left the door open.

* * *

hanareg - dear brother


	19. And Fate Ran to Catch Them Up

Riposte. Stab. Parry the blow. Dodge! Whack! _Duck!_ Thornhill's arms were becoming heavy, wielding the wooden sword more clumsily each time he windmilled his right arm to block a well-aimed stab at his vitals. He had stopped caring about his dignity a while ago, and was now gasping for breath between parries with a mouth wide open as a goldfish's, his face burning with exertion. Aduialion had no mercy this time about, certainly. Eventually, Thornhill's sweaty palms lost grip of the twine-wound grip and he found himself lying on the turf, the point of Aduialion's sword a half-inch from his throat. "Do you yield?"

It was an uncommonly fine day for what Thornhill reckoned to be mid-February, and his fencing-practice had been taken outside, where the sun was shining white in all its glory — without emitting any sort of heat. Standing now (having now acknowledged his defeat to Aduialion) in the crisp air, and perspiring profusely, Thornhill was suddenly aware that he was getting quite chilly: a breeze blew his way, soaking through his tunic and making the skin on his chest and forearms cringe.

"You are able to hold out for—" Aduialion paused. "Do you hear me?"

"What? Sorry — er — I mean — _diheno nin_ , Aduialion. I was lost in my thoughts."

"You are able to hold out for longer when we spar, now. However, your movements grow clumsier as you tire. I am willing to practise with you daily, if you wish to improve your stamina."

"Stamina?"

The ellon gave a minute sigh of impatience. "Thonel, you know that word. It is — the not-becoming-tired-as-easily. Stamina."

"Ah!" Thornhill was still catching his breath, great lungfuls of it. He had not exerted himself so in a while as he had this past week, and his knees were trembling a little underneath him. He was also acutely aware of the fact that his nose was running. "Forgive me. It is difficult to remember new words while I have lost my breath."

"Iston. But you must try, Thonel."

"I _am_."

"Another match, then?"

Thornhill groaned, but he was interrupted mid-complaint with a swipe from Aduialion, and he found himself parrying that jab with astounding speed. _My reflexes are back_ , he thought grimly, recalling a time when, during a raid, a Boche had caught him unawares in the trench, and — within a split second — had gotten a bullet in the brain. His old Colt had actually aimed well that time, and that had satisfied him; yet he still shuddered at the thought of that man (2 days' scruff, greenish-grey eyes — like Aduialion's, those eyes!) collapsing backwards, dead. How many had he killed with that revolver, rusting so innocently on a cushion in his bedroom?

He didn't like to think about it.

And he was on the ground again. Aduialion hadn't bothered to ask, _Do you yield_. "You must concentrate," he said instead, glancing at Thornhill sternly. "You are not concentrating. Do not think. Thinking is for later."

"I am tired."

"Move past the fatigue, Thonel. Should you give into fatigue, you will be slain. Again."

"I shall be slain again, or another match?"

"You cannot be slain _twice_ , Thonel." The ellon seemed perilously close to losing patience.

Thornhill responded with a half-hearted stab at Aduialion's jugular, which was quickly responded to with a riposte and a swipe at his belly. He threw himself upon the ground and rolled away from another potential hit by the ellon's sword, attempting a hack at Aduialion's ankles as he did so. That would have gone well, had the damned man not leaped upwards just in time with the agility of his kind. Thornhill gritted his teeth. He _would_ win, he _woul_ —

Another loss.

"You tried this time, Thonel. Mae garnen. Again?"

"No — no." His breath was ragged. "Another time. Need rest."

"Can your muscles move?"

"They do not take the movement lightly."

Aduialion stood for a while, head tilted in thought. After a little while, he spoke. "Very well — mae garnen. You have tried hard, and I will let you go now. When do you wish to leave Imladris?"

"As soon as I can take down one of the _yrch_ single-handedly."

"That is not difficult, save for when there is a bunch of them." His mouth twisted wryly at his own quip. "Unfortunately, that is almost always the case."

"Then — when I can kill the lot."

"Foolhardy are you: but then, that is like most Men, so I have heard."

"I've killed some before."

"You have killed orcs?"

"I have killed men."

There was silence, and Thornhill felt Aduialion's eyes boring into his — he felt his cheeks burning, and he looked down to the tops of his calfskin shoes.

"Where have you been? Were they from the east?"

"Long, long way, Aduialion. I do not wish to speak of it." Still, the ellon stared, though he betrayed nothing. "I am ashamed," Thornhill added, hoping to end the conversation there. "And I am leaving soon. I dislike this place." He marched away, taking his wooden sword with him.

* * *

It was not hard to find Bertie: he was at the forge as usual, conversing amiably with Himelon as the latter smote a red-hot horseshoe in leather gloves and apron. Thornhill stormed inside. "Bertie! Menif — tomorrow —"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes! I'm tired of Imladris. I want to leave."

"You can't."

"Rhaich. Idiot! Why not?"

"Your mixing-up of English and _edhellen_ is most amusing, Ernest. Where've you been, fencing practice again?"

"What do you think."

Davies turned to Himelon, shrugging apologetically. "He is always like this after sparring. It must be the cold air."

The ellon did not answer, but the hammer clanged upon the anvil loudly; that had been answer enough for the man lately. For a while, there was nothing in the forge save for the busy rustling of the smiths and the occasional murmur of a master to his apprentice. The clear ring of a sledgehammer came from an anvil somewhere in the corner — Davies turned, and saw that it was the youngest apprentice there that was wielding it, his dark hair tied into a rough knot at the top of his head. Funny — there weren't very many 'young' people here: Himelon claimed that he, Iúlchon and that apprentice there were the only ones in Imladris that had recently come into their manhood. 'Recently', being a space of roughly fifty years, give or take a few.

"Why the silence?" Davies felt a strong hand enclose his wrist. "We're going."

Himelon spoke up then, having completed his horseshoe. "I do not understand what you are saying. What do you want, Thonel?"

"I want to leave here, and Béti is not — not — _agreeing_."

"Such a swift decision, with so little counsel: is it wise?"

"Wise enough — for me."

And Davies found himself being pulled out of the smithy. Ernest led him across the yard and through a door, turning left into a corridor. They rushed past several doors — one of them leading into Elrond's study — and up a flight of stairs. There was the entrance to the large balcony, open. Davies was jostled down yet another set of stairs before his friend let go of his wrist. He rubbed it, grimacing. Ernest's grip was not to be joked about. "What does this mean?"

"I _have_ to go."

"This is a little quick, don't you think?"

Distractedly, Ernest put his hands to his head, closing his eyes, his mouth moving silently. _Where's my room_. And then he said it out loud. "Where's my room?"

"You're acting funny, Ernest. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. I wanner find my room. But it's not here." There was an urgency, but no hysteria, to the young man's voice.

"Bloody hell, Ernest."

"Yes, bloody hell and damn it there, too! Help me find my bloody room!"

Davies raised his hands placatingly, rolling his eyes. "All right, Ernest. I don't know where it is, either. You've led us someplace completely foreign."

For a moment, it looked as though the poor lad was about to cry, and Davies' insides clenched in anticipation — but Ernest pulled himself together and motioned for Davies to follow him down another set of corridors; before he knew it, Ernest was throwing open the intricately carved wooden door to show the all-too-familiar four-poster bed, with various surcoats hanging on nails on one wall and tunics and hose thrown every which way. A sack stood against the only chair in the room, looking as though it had been filled and emptied several times in a row.

"Righto," said Ernest. Abruptly, he shoved Davies out of the room and closed his door with a resounding _slam_.

It took several minutes for Davies to tear himself from the door, from which were issuing muffled sounds of rushing about, interspersed with the occasional curse in English, and once a yelled _Rhaich!_ after what sounded like a toe smashing against a bedstead.

But he did go away after a while, troubled thoughts pulsing behind his eyes until they gave him quite a headache.

* * *

Davies' head only ceased its throbbing after supper, by which time it had cowed his stomach into some sort of a sluggish nausea; he had not eaten much that evening: he had not dared to. Now, the combination of the cool air outside and the softly dying daylight had calmed the headache, but the vague uneasiness inside him did not abate.

 _He's mad_ , thought Davies, and it circled round his head, blocking out the bird-calls. _He's mad and I don't know what to do about it._ There was no solution. He was not Thornhill's father; twelve years' difference did not amount to much, the older one got. "He ain't Andrew." The shadows were beginning to disappear altogether, as the sun slipped behind the mountains. Now everything was shadow. And Ernest was still mad.

"Ae!" A clear voice floated up beside him, shaping itself into the silver-haired, fair-faced ellon called Himelon. A cheerful grin was quickly replaced by a drawing-in of the brows, as though Himelon wanted to remember something. "You — did not seem well at the evening meal. What ails you?"

"My head. It is better now, however."

"Good!"

They walked on in silence, Davies being rather too preoccupied to speak, let alone question the impromptu arrival of his Elven friend. Yet words found their way out of his mouth somehow, and he asked whether Himelon had noticed something strange about Ernest's behaviour that morning before he could stop his runaway tongue. And before Himelon could stop his, he replied in the affirmative: indeed, Thonel had seemed wildly troubled that morning.

"He has —" Davies groped for the word, before settling for English. " _turns_ — where he is like this. It is queer, and I do not know why."

" _Tán_?"

"Times."

"I do not know why, either, then, for you are further acquainted with Thonel than I."

Davies considered. "Well — he has been in a war. War. It — sometimes — makes one troubled. I only know this now, because I have been in one too. Bad dreams. Like that. My Arda did not know this until my war. We name it _shell shock_."

At this, Himelon's face drew in, his lips pursing. "My father has these troubles too, when he is severely overburdened. It is something the Edhellim are also familiar with, Béti — in your tongue, you call this _sel sac_?"

"Shell shock."

"S—"

"Shhh. That is the sound you make."

"Sss—" Himelon abandoned his efforts and shook his head. "My tongue does not contain this sound; we find it so cumbersome and unlovely to use in speech."

"You can learn to make the sound. Edhellim are good, so you will learn it quickly. More quickly — than I learn edhellen. I still do not make the sounds right, but it is better now."

"Halt there! You have been placing words into my own mouth; I never said that I wished to learn your language. What do you call it?"

"English."

" _Íngles._ Ss. Ssssss— oh, that cursed sound again!"

Smiling complacently, Davies noted that this was the first time he had outstripped one of the Edhellim in anything, and said nothing.

"But, I am grave now. Thonel has been obsessed with the idea of leaving Imladris for a long time now, has he not?"

"He has."

"It seems to me as though he wishes indeed to leave — he has learnt to ride and to spar, and appears to be making himself more hardy for a long road."

"His bedchamber — filled with clothes, everywhere. He took me there and then began to fill a sack. I think — it had been filled and unfilled for many times before that. I think he is — not deciding — is that how you say it?"

"Indecisive, yes."

"Indecisive. Yes. Indecisive over if he wishes to go, or not."

"I know nothing of the arts physic, and no more of the ailments of the mind, Béti, and I cannot help you. Do you intend to go with Thonel, should he leave indeed?"

"Of course!" It tore from Davies in an unwontedly forceful, uncontrollable way — but yes — should Ernest go, Ernest would not go alone. Damn the comfort of Imladris. He could not trust the lad alone, what with his impetuosity and his nerves. There was no wife, no family (Gertrude! What was she doing now? Was she even alive? Davies did not know how time was passing back on earth, and he shuddered at the thought) to lose, and nothing to leave behind _really_ — he'd already left it last December. No, two Decembers ago. How many Decembers had it been since he'd been detailed to France?

"Then, I think —" Davies could hear Himelon take a quivery breath. "I think I shall leave also. I see that you think that you have nothing left to lose. I, too, do not believe that there is much for me to lose."

"You have a father, a mother and a sister."

"They will fade in time."

"You do not grow old and die. So I have heard."

"Verily we do not, yet Demmedir says to me that the time of our kindred upon Ennor is drawing to a close. It was closing already, thousands of years ago, and now, the time is fast approaching when our deeds will no longer be remembered."

"That is sad."

"Indeed, Béti, though it is of no consequence to me. I do not wish to be remembered for my deeds, should I have accidentally done any which deserve remembrance. And that is why I will come with you if — when — you depart."

"That is kind of you." The sky was now an indigo deepening by the minute, and the air was chilly with frost and wind. Davies shuddered: mainly because of the cold, but also — perhaps?— because he did not want to leave Imladris. Dear old Imladris, a haven and an idyll. But Imladris was not home. Home was gone. "Himelon — what _is_ this place? Yes, it is your home. But it is also something else."

"Imladris was once a haven, so I have been told. It is still a haven now. Here, we preserve what is now lost elsewhere. Now, Imladris is also a waystation, for travels elsewhere — especially for the Edain. You cannot stay here forever, Béti. Nobody of your kindred has. I believe that it is your fate that you go elsewhere; you must not deny it, for that has never come to a good end, according to the old lore."

 _I don't agree. I've_ had _my adventures._ Davies rolled his eyes despairingly to the clouds scudding across the sky, reddish tendrils grabbing out at the wind, but he did not tell Himelon.

Somehow, Himelon knew that Béti did not understand — that fate was something foreign to him. It was foreign to him too; fate was the driving force behind the great tales from the days of yore, and what niggled at the back of his mind as something that could not be shaken off, no matter how hard he tried. He did not reveal this to his companion.

Rain began to fall in great curtains of water, dripping through the leaves of the trees and soaking into their shoes — a complaint from the rusty sky above them. Hauling his surcoat above his head, Davies took Himelon by the wrist and dragged him inside.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Colt was one of the firms that produced revolvers in use during the WWI.

Something new: an apprentice called the 'striker' is usually the one to use a giant sledgehammer during heavy smithwork. The smith taps the bit of the workpiece that he/she wants hit with a small hammer, and the apprentice complies.

Night skies do tend to appear red when overcast. At least they do over where your humble author lives. No artistic license taken, I promise!

 _Sindarin_

Iston - I know

Mae garnen - well done

Menif - Let's go (Lit. 'we go')

Rhaich - curses

Ae - hi/hello/greetings/etc.

Ennor - Middle-Earth (Certh kindly pointed out I had used the Quenya term; my memory had failed me! Here it is in its Sindarinised glory.)

Happy June, readers, and thank you for your reviews.

 **A.B.C.**


	20. Goodbye-ee!

_One hundred long years ago, on this very day, Ernest Thornhill and Albert Davies took part in one of the most futile attacks in the history of modern warfare. Over 20,000 men lost their lives on the 1st of July, 1916. '_ At the going down of the sun/ and in the morning/ we will remember them.'

* * *

The infirmary had been quiet lately. Rain pattered down outside, leaving Osgariel's roost warm and dry by comparison. Rising from a stool inside the store-cupboard, where she had been mending a bedsheet, Osgariel surveyed each of the beds in turn. Not that there was any need — all of them were unoccupied, and the linen was crisp and pristine, waiting to be sullied by blood and effluvia. There was no telling when the company of the sons of Elrond would return; it was a gamble as to whether one of them would be wounded severely enough to require a stay here. Thus the ten beds were kept in a state of constant readiness, should an emergency come unlooked for.

Someone strode in just as Osgariel bent over to smoothe a tiny crease from the counterpane of the bed in the far corner. The steps were uncommonly heavy for one of the Elves: perhaps the sons of Elrond had returned? She turned, bracing herself for news of grievous injury, only to find an open-faced young man of stature shorter than herself in front of her.

"What brings you here?" she inquired, mystified as to why he felt the need to break the peace; she did not notice that he held a scrap of cloth to his cheek.

"I have cut myself. It is much bleeding. You have a thing for it?" The young man took his hand from the cheek, displaying a cut placed strangely, as though he had ran a knife there deliberately. The blood began its way downwards, making to drip off his chin.

"What sort of a 'thing' do you mean?"

"A — a —" the man's brow furrowed "wrapping. Dressing! That is it."

"Wash it first; then I will be able to assess it." Osgariel swept outside to the pump and soaked another cloth in the water, wringing it until it was merely damp. Coming back in, she directed the man to sit on one of the beds and cleaned his wound (could she call it a wound? It was so small—) until she could see the incision clearly. It was neither long nor short, and was straight as the path of a well-shot arrow.

"I was cutting my—" He hesitated. "I can't remember what you call it. What grows on your face. In men."

"Beard."

"My beard. The knife slipped."

"I see. It is no grave injury; it will sting for a day or two more, but it should heal in time. Apply pressure to your cut until the bleeding stops."

The man looked confused.

"Do you understand me?"

"Not entirely, truth be told. Your tongue is still a foreign tongue to me."

Taking another cloth from the bed, she placed it into the young man's hand. "Put this to the cut. Press hard. Until the bleeding stops." He obeyed her readily, sitting still and holding the white linen to his cheek. It was a good sign that Osgariel did not see small blossoms of blood blooming through the cloth right away. There was a long silence, punctuated by the rain outside — a gentle roar that could have almost been the sea.

The young man took the cloth from his cheek, and the blood had mostly clotted. "I also came to ask you — I wish to cut my hair."

Osgariel was nonplussed. Hair was cut only by the edhellen by reasons of practicality, such as in the event of war or in preparation for a long journey, rather than on the slightest whim. Yet this was one of the Edain before her, and their ways were strange. Groping about in her cupboard for what seemed to be the umpteenth time that day, she procured a pair of shears and offered them to the adan; it occurred to her now that his face was quite familiar, though where she had seen it had long faded into the back of her mind. He took the shears and had scarce lopped off one lock when she stayed his hand. "Here." Osgariel turned him round. Parting his hair twice, she twisted it into a thick plait. "Now it will be easier for you."

It was not without a little dismay that the healer watched him slice cruelly into the thick rope of hair, severing it in three snips, and throw it on the floor with an air of mild disgust. It was wavy — close to gold, though many times duller and coarser — and the man's disregard for it was quite foreign, it seemed to Osgariel.

"Would you like a looking-glass?" she inquired, before he could so much as open his mouth.

"Thank you."

To her surprise, he took one look at his reflection and lifted the shears up once more. Shaking her head, Osgariel took them and demanded that he keep hold of the mirror. "Tell me when I ought to stop cutting, adan."

"Thank you — again. As short as possible, if you please." The young man chuckled to himself.

"As you wish." She began to trim away the ragged ends where the plait of hair had once been, leaving curls of sandy brown scattered thickly onto what was once a pristine counterpane. Snipping all the small ends was hard work, she discovered; she had not had to do this ever since one of the Dúnedain had been delivered with a severe head-wound — he had been clubbed by a troll.

Meanwhile, the head of the man was beginning to look quite like a partially-shorn sheep, with curly ends sticking up and sideways haphazardly. He told Osgariel to stop after a while, satisfied, and thanked her profusely for the shearing. It was then that she realised who he was, the image swimming back into her mind: he was the man in the queer clothes who had been sent in, fever-dazed and in considerable pain, with an infected wound in the leg. Of course — he'd spoken a strange language, too, and she bade him be quiet. He had vomited upon awakening. Whether it was because of the fever, the sleeping draught she gave him or the sight of his leg Osgariel did not know, but he had been visibly agitated.

And here he was, and she had cut his hair.

The man left the room now. Hairs covered the bed where he had sat; hairs were distributed finely on the floor. Sighing heavily, Osgariel took a broom from the corner, swept them into a pile — dark, a heap no larger than a mole-hill — and returned to the torn bedsheet in the store-cupboard. The hair-cut was small respite from the monotony of the infirmary, though she would miss it when it was gone. At least the rain had stopped.

* * *

Davies caught himself humming one of those strange Elvish melodies as he scrubbed at his braies in the washroom, scrubbing until he was sure even that sturdy linen had ripped. He caught himself just in time, marveling at how he had managed to pick up such intricate lines of music; it was music he'd never heard before landing in this place. The closest _he_ had come to highfalutin music was Elgar — two weeks before his marriage, Davies had taken his then-fiancée to a concert of his, and had enjoyed it. Elvish music was not Elgar — far from it. And it was jarring, after over two years hearing rousing music hall songs and bawdy ditties (courtesy of the privates in his platoon), for these haunting phrases to enter his ears.

Of course, he understood most of the words now. Many songs were ballads: laments for edhellen long dead, or lays of praise for those who had done great deeds. Some were older than Master Elrond, such as the _Noldo-lantay_ , snatches of which were occasionally sung in the hall with the great fire in the centre. The title was in a different Elvish tongue. _High-Elven_ , Himelon called it. Most in Imladris did not know any of this tongue, though some — such as Elrond, his sons and the most excellent loremasters — spoke it almost fluently.

But to him, it was gibberish — even if some notes soared and wailed, making his heart flutter and his throat ache with the sadness.

A woman smiled at him as she walked past with a basket of dried clothes, and Davies heard her lift her voice into song as she went out of the door. It was the same song he had been humming. Wringing the braies out, he placed them on a pile with other clothes already washed, and began on a pair of breeches. The soapy water was by now rather murky; Davies doubted it would do much to properly clean those trousers.

"Hullo —"

Davies stopped short, and his eyebrows felt as though they had shot off his face. "That _is_ you, isn't it —" he shook his head "sir?"

Ernest grinned, flushing a little. "I do look rather like my old self again, don't I?"

"Blimey, Ernest. I've got myself so used to you with that long hair, and you go and chop it off again! Is there method to the madness?"

"Can't say there is, I'm afraid."

"What a pity." Davies took hold of a slippery bar of soap and worked up a lather onto the cotton. "You look neater with the cropped hair. It does look strange with the robes, though. Got some washing to do?"

"Yes." He held up a bundle of khaki. "The old uniform. It was beginning to stink something horrendous."

"I should imagine so, it brewing in dried blood and mud and all sorts of sh—"

"Steady on there, chum!" Both men threw their heads back and howled with laughter, despite the lack of a real joke in the exchange. A few of the edhellen stared at them bemusedly, smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths also, before turning back to work.

After he had recovered, Thornhill began to ladle water from a steaming barrel in the corner into a tub, until it was nearly full to the brim. It was clean — had a whiff of freshness to it without even smelling of anything. The thought of dipping his tunic into that made him sigh inwardly. However, he did so anyway, gulping back a squirt of bile as the stench of war clogged his nostrils.

The water turned black within seconds.

After a few half-hearted swishes here and there to clean away the dirt on the surface, Thornhill lifted the dripping tunic out of the tub and laid it on the floor, pouring the remaining sludge out of the low window intended for such drainage. And he filled the tub with a fresh load of water, scrubbing more stuff out of the tunic, black water, drain, fill, lug, scrub, drain, fill, lug, scrub — the sickening scent never went away really, even as the water took longer to dirty — even as the tunic looked cleaner —

Shuddering, he thought he caught a hint of phosgene gas; the cloying scent made him want to be violently sick, and he swallowed painfully again, unaware that his face had gone rather sweaty and pasty in the process —

"Having trouble, Ernest?" He glanced up to see a bearded face staring concernedly at him. Coming to himself again, Thornhill then realised that he was shaking all over, cold sweat running down his back.

"Just — just had a funny turn, that's all. I'm all right now," he replied, dragging a sleeve across his face and giving a small, staccato cough.

"You don't look too well."

"I'm all right now," repeated Thornhill testily. "Let me do my washing."

"If you say so." Bertie didn't look too convinced, however, and did not turn away without a nervous glimpse behind him.

The rest of the tunic-cleaning was completed without a hitch, and Thornhill began on the trousers, again scrubbing away as much of the dirt as was humanly possible. His hands were becoming red and raw with the soap — soft as it was, his hands did not tolerate excessive exposure. After the trousers came the shirt: dark, just as the army regulations liked it. An acrid whiff of sweat radiated from the armpits, ripened with age. And then the tie — puttees had been discarded; they had been caked with nastiness from Thornhill's leg-wound.

After what seemed like an age and a half, tunic, trousers, shirt and tie were stretched out upon the floor — soaking, but clean. All they smelled of now was the faint sweetness of the soap of the edhellen. He began to wring the shirt into the tub, regretting that he could not press his uniform. Thornhill doubted severely the availability of a flatiron in Imladris.

He rolled his neck and his shoulders about, gritting his teeth at the clicks — he was only _twenty_ — wait, no — had he turned twenty-one? What month was it? Everybody else had left the washroom now. Exhaling heavily, Thornhill hung the articles of clothing on the poles about the washroom. He could disperse them freely; they were so unlike the various sets of tunics, breeches, hose and kirtles that he would be able to tell which was his at first glance. His stomach growled and burned — _time for lunch_ , he thought vaguely, deciding that he was not _feeling_ particularly hungry, though he would eat anyway so as to avoid an ignominious collapse.

Emptying the wash-tub for the final time, Thornhill shunted it into a corner somewhere and limped out of the laundry (he was still awfully stiff), finding his way out into the yard. Dust had been stirred to a sludgy, red-brown mud, and rain still fell from a heavy, dismal sky. The breeze was a shock to his shorn head, and he rumpled it with one hand, remembering the neat side-part that had once lived there. A wet comb had been the only way to tame the unruly waves of his sandy hair.

The dining-hall was a reasonable way away from the laundry, deep in the heart of Elrond's house. What had seemed so idyllic in the autumn when Thornhill had first arrived now seemed cold and real, drowned in the fathoms of a February noon.

He could not hear any voices singing as he crossed the yard; they were sequestered where there was no rain. Gaping loneliness gnawed inside his stomach, combining with its bitter juices, and Thornhill indulged in it, leaning against a wall as the rain began to pour and plaster his hair to his head. _I'm alone, and there is nobody here. Alone._ The threat of tears rose in his throat, and the feeling exalted him. _I can cry with the sky_.

But a laugh came instead of a sob at the unexpected rhyme, and the young man shook his head at his sentimentality and wandered inside, dripping onto the tiles.

He caught up with the smell of the midday meal soon enough; it must have been roast beef or something of the like. The bright, bustling atmosphere of the dining hall set Thornhill's stomach to growling again, and he sat himself down beside a dark-haired ellon and fairly shoveled food onto his plate — it was indeed a roast, with plenty of bread and butter, and carrots and parsnips in a thick gravy. _Reminds me of England_ , thought Thornhill absently, gulping down a large mouthful. _Mother's gravy was always top-hole_.

The man sitting next to him gave him a sidelong look, faint approval in his eyes. Evidently he had noticed the fervour with which Thornhill ate. "Forgive me; I am hungry," said the young man, grinning sheepishly.

"It is of no consequence," returned the ellon graciously. "It is a good meal, is it not?"

"Very good!"

"I will not disturb your meal any further, then." He turned away to converse with a friend opposite him, leaving Thornhill to his own devices.

Chatter buzzed about the hall as usual, and once he was satisfied, the young man began to look about him, wondering if Bertie was anywhere. He would have to arrange with him the date and time of leaving Imladris. Of course, Bertie was a silly old fart and would want to hold off the journey until he'd said goodbye to every inch of comfort that this place had offered. Secretly, he had planned to leave that night — when everybody was asleep and nobody would question his slipping away. _Fat chance getting_ that _past Bertie_.

Elrond sat at the head of the table on the dais as usual, flanked by that blond Elf and the beautiful lady that was his daughter. He did not speak, and sat sipping at a wooden goblet, a morose expression on his face. Whether that was because of recent events or not Thornhill could not guess; all the edhellen seemed to have this sorrowful look about them. He had finally reckoned that the older an Elf got, the sadder he would look. Perhaps that was their way of aging.

 _Thornhill_ had no intention of living the rest of his life in a place where he would be continuously be burdened with sorrow. He wouldn't be able to stand it — the dreams, the memories — they all came back when he was idle.

Whatever those _yrch_ were — he was sure that they wouldn't be as much danger as the toch-emmas.

* * *

"You mean — you are not coming back, melloneg?"

"I may, though that is uncertain." Himelon hung his leather apron upon a nail in the wall. The fire in the furnace warmed the smithy, even unto the darkest corner, and he had begun to sweat in the mugginess of it.

"That is a great shame; I will have nobody to speak to in the forge!"

"All the better to concentrate upon your work, then," retorted Himelon. He realised too late the severity of the reply, and stalked out of the door, leaving Iúlchon gaping. The possibility of an apology was long gone.

Flattening a few stray strands of silver hair, he made his way across the yard, into Elrond's house and onto the porch. Here was quiet. _In Hithaeglir_ loomed up before him, the snow tinged pink by the setting sun. True to their name, the mountains held about their tops a thick, unsettling mist, through which even Himelon's keen eyes could not penetrate. Lower down was a collection of black dots — _orcs_ , thought the ellon with a shudder. These he would have to face.

But he would face them, Himelon decided: it was his fate, and it would do him little good to avoid it.

Later that night, Nibeniel found him stuffing various items into a haversack, and wanted to know why.

"It does not concern you, nethig." He sat down upon his bed, wondering where he could find a flint and steel.

"I fear for you, Himelon. What will I tell adar when he returns?"

"You will tell him nothing." His sister placed herself beside him on the bed, taking his hand. Involuntarily, Himelon found himself leaning on her shoulder, and he sighed heavily. "Nethig —"

"Hanareg?"

"I do not want to go."

"Why — where are you going, brother mine?"

"Away, with the two Men — Thonel and Béti."

"Why do they go?"

"Thonel goes because he has tired of Imladris, and Béti to keep him company. I go — because —"

"Why do you go, hanareg?"

"I feel I must, Nibeniel. Because I feel I must." Himelon felt his sister's shoulders rise and fall with a quivering breath, and took his head away. There was no comfort he could offer her; he could barely comfort himself. He could only press her hand and hang his head as Nibeniel attempted to stifle her tears.

For a while, there was only the moon and Nibeniel's wet breaths and thronging silence, before she took her hand away from his and dried her eyes with her sleeve. "You —"

Her voice was still raw and tight.

"Do not breathe a word to our father. I fear his anger; he fears I will perish. Please."

"For your own good, Himelon —"

"—stay." But Himelon could not, now. He had made his decision.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Melloneg - my friend

This chapter was published today for a reason. Happy reading, friends.

Cheers,

 **A.B.C.**


	21. All In Good Fun

Davies had not foreseen the abrupt departure that night. An unexpected dream of home — _home_ home — had woken him up with thoughts and emotions chasing each other about his head until he decided he wanted some fresh air. It must have been out of sheer coincidence that Davies met Ernest and Himelon outside the stables that midnight, the two carrying packs and wearing thick, billowing cloaks. Ernest was smiling almost smugly in the darkness; Davies was too tired to mind. "What've you got there, lads?"

"Clothes — food — what're you supposed to take on a journey?"

"Damned if I know. Furthest I've ever been of my own volition is Yorkshire." The unpleasant realisation dawned on him far too late. "Wait — where the _hell_ are you going."

"Himelon — what do you take on a journey in Imladris?" queried Ernest, ignoring his friend.

"You will not need a change in clothes, save perhaps a spare under-tunic and braies. And you will want weapons."

"I have a revolver," mused Thornhill in English, reaching for something near his belly. Davies then realised that the young man had changed into his officers' uniform, with the Colt dangling in pride of place off its old lanyard. The clear-cut outline of the tunic and trousers was unmistakable, even under his cloak in the murky dark of night. _That's why he was washing it_.

"Hold on. What on _earth_ are you two doing?"

"Leaving. Aren't you coming with us, Bertie?"

"Well — I — I — you didn't give me half a day's notice! How was I supposed to—"

"You know now, anyhow. Haven't you got anything with you?"

"Why, I'm still in my nightclothes! I went out for a midnight wander!"

"Then get changed — sharpish."

Davies did as he was told; there was an uncharacteristic note of command in the former officer's voice that he hadn't heard since the day that grenade had taken them to Arda. The nightclothes he bundled up to take with him without thinking, though he would never have the need to change into them for the next few weeks. He left his uniform hanging on the back of his chair by his bed, like the first Elvish clothes he'd ever worn, and tidied up a little before marching back to the stables.

Ernest had been waiting there impatiently, and clucked disapprovingly as Davies approached. Curiously enough, he was now alone. "Took you long enough. What were you doing, saying goodbye to the clothes-press and the looking-glass?"

"Putting my things in order," was all that Davies said to that. "Where's Himelon, anyhow?"

"Fetching a few daggers and some food. Oh yes, and rope."

"Where exactly do you plan to go, Ernest?"

The young man laughed. "Wherever the horses lead us, Bertie!"

Himelon reappeared eventually, three sheathed knives and a misshapen bundle in his arms. and a quiver full of arrows were slung behind his pack. "Dried fruit, dried meat, bread and waterskins. Eat sparingly and take advantage of every clean source of water we come across."

"And should we run out of food?"

"I have some skill in hunting, mellyn. I will teach you both what I know." The ellon motioned for both men to come with him further into the stable, where he whispered in _edhellen_ to the horses there. A minute later, he took one of the equines and began to equip it with reins, saddle, and all sorts of paraphernalia that Davies had forgotten the names for. How the lad — _man_ , Davies upbraided himself; Himelon was twice his age — managed to feel around and tack the horse in almost entire darkness was beyond him. The same was done to two other horses, and then Himelon said, "Take a horse each and lead them out."

That they did, Davies patting the animal absent-mindedly and wondering whether he could actually ride one without falling off.

The yard was silent in itself, though the ever-present sound of singing thronged faintly through the night — signs of the lack of need of sleep that all the edhellen seemed to possess. Himelon stuffed all his supplies bar his pack into a saddlebag or two, motioning for the two men to do the same, before climbing onto the steed with the grace that so easily befell his kind. Davies was less successful. It took him a few minutes to heave himself onto the back of the patient equine using the raw strength of his arms and abdomen, kicking his legs for leverage all the while. Ernest sat straight on _his_ mount already, trim and confident as a cavalry officer.

Himelon led the three travellers out of the yard and up a path lined with ancient, thick-boled oaks. In the dark they seemed almost threatening — until a voice called quietly from above. "Son of Glindir!"

"Good evening, Dognir — or should I say good morning?" Himelon's voice mimicked the jesting lilt of the tree-voice.

"I reckon it to be roughly two hours past midnight. What business do you have here, anyhow?"

"I am going away — up to the Ettenmoors, and then west, I believe."

"For what reason?"

"A Mannish friend from far afield wished to find his homeland. He was hurt, and he swooned ere he knew whither he came." Himelon paused. "He is my good friend, and I aim to please him."

If trees had eyes, Davies was sure they would have popped out of its head. "Is that _wise_?"

"Admittedly not, Dognir, but I have long accepted that reason does not play a great part in my friend's wishes. He is determined to go."

"Then you have my best wishes for your success in staying alive." Before Davies could even start and fall off his high seat, a darkly-clad figure leapt from the oak's bare branches, a bow slung over its back — just like Himelon. It unhooded itself and the lantern it held in its hand, and light fell on a handsome, soft-boned face that seemed to match the joyful tenor exuding from it exactly. "Take this in stead of your cloak-clasp. Your father is a noble man —" his eyes lit up teasingly "— although stern and irritatingly proud."

The light of the lantern fell onto a polished copper brooch, bent to the form of a cutting off an evergreen tree and inlaid with a milky, pale green stone. "A token from your folk in Mirkwood, I assume?" queried Himelon as he exchanged his brass clasp for the copper.

"Not at all! The trinket hails from Doriath."

"Doriath under the Great Sea?" Himelon's voice was suddenly hushed, and he stared reverently at the brooch in his hand. "It is too precious. I cannot take it."

"No matter! It was first of my great-grandmother in the Elder Days, and I am proud of its lineage, but Wood-Elves do not care for such unnecessary meaning. Take it; perhaps it may bring you a measure of good fortune." The guard smiled again, and, with a nod in farewell, swung himself back into the tree, fading again into obscurity.

Himelon did not speak for some time as they continued on their way up the path.

When a few minutes had passed, Davies pulled up by him, nodding his head towards the brooch that the ellon was fingering. "What does that look like?"

"Leaves — do you not see?"

"Yes — but what type of leaves?"

"Hemlock-leaves, I believe. There were great firs in Doriath, so the tales tell." Himelon sighed, and spurred his horse onwards. "Go behind me; the path is narrowing. We shall be at the ford of the Bruinen soon."

No sounds came from the trees above, save for the soft humming of one of the Elves within. The song was wistful, and Davies marked it as a tune often sung by the fire as the evening drew to a close. The loud roar of the river hovered now at the edges of his hearing. Uncomfortable at the silence, Davies turned behind him to see his friend riding tall, unaffected by the strange hours.

They came to the Bruinen soon enough. Funny, how it sounded almost like _Brunnen_ , the German word for fountain — Davies did not know how he knew that; it must have been a code-word or something of that ilk. The horses stepped into the swiftly running water without so much as even flinching, though both men looked determinedly ahead for fear that the spray would take them down. The ford took less than a minute to cross, however, and Himelon gathered them both to him afterwards. "Have a care now," he warned them. "We are no longer under Master Elrond's protection, so we must defend ourselves. The lands to the east — past Imladris, that is — are teeming with orcs and other foul creatures. And goodness knows how far west they may have travelled."

"Which way do we go, then?"

"North," came a voice from behind. Davies and Himelon turned to see Ernest speaking. "I know this already. I thought before. North, then west."

"Yes, that is what Thonel and I had agreed this evening."

"But —" stammered Davies, "— you even know the way?"

"I may not know the lands around as well as one of the Dúnedain, nor have I as many summers behind me as my father — but I _do_ know which way is north, and which way west."

Davies laughed nervously at this and let him be. The air was crisp and cold; he could feel it bleed through his cloak, surcoat and tunic, chilling him to the bone. A few miles north, and the narrow path would widen into wasteland. Slowly, the three travellers made their way up the river — water to the right, woodland to the left. This carried on for what seemed like an age: Himelon in front, Ernest behind, and Davies in the middle, making every effort not to startle his mount and thereby fall into the river.

Silence, louder than a hundred nights of relentless shellfire, pressed on his ears, ripped apart by the sudden cry of a bird. The noise made the man gasp in spite of himself. It was a quiet gasp: nothing more than a short intake of breath, swiftly arrested by a gritting of teeth. But Himelon noticed either way and glanced behind him with a frown. "Forgive me — just a bird. Nothing more," Davies whispered to him, leaning forward in his saddle until he was sure he would topple over, cracking his skull in the process.

Nevertheless, the ellon sped his horse up, and the two men behind him had no choice but to follow. They reached the end of the woods soon enough.

Turning northwards, the three saw the beginnings of the familiar lands — rocky outcrops, evergreens and sheer ravines, all lit by nothing but the stars above. The lands were lonely — even Davies could tell that. A wind wailed above, rustling Himelon's silver hair and bringing with it dark clouds on the horizon that foretold rain, or perhaps even snow.

Progress was slow. Horse-hooves — even those of the nimble Elvish sort — found the rugged terrain difficult. Himelon tried to find traces of old roads, long overgrown with thick, choking weeds and littered with pebbles that got stuck under the horses' iron shoes. Several times for the remainder of the night did Himelon have to dismount with his penknife, in order to dig out the painful articles and keep the horses going.

Fearful of an unlooked-for ambush, the three men did not speak at all; if Davies so much as breathed too loudly, Himelon turned sharply with a glare that could have almost equaled the steely gaze of his father. And so they carried on in silence until the first outlines of dawn reddened the distant mountains in the east, and the bright morning star shone clear amongst the fading dots of its companions.

 _Eärendil_ , Himelon whispered, his voice quaking faintly with reverence and relief.

"What?" Ernest broke the silence abruptly.

"Quiet!" hissed Davies behind him (in edhellen for Himelon's benefit), and whispered to the aforementioned in front, "Who is this _eya-rendil_ you speak of?"

"Hush," replied Himelon. "That is a tale for another time. Keep going."

The terrain was almost unchanging for a while, marred only by occasional heaps of rubble that were the unmistakeable remains of buildings. Near the outline of one foundation, by the shelter of a fir tree, they set up camp. There did not seem to be any civilisation for miles along.

Himelon started up a fire cautiously, using the inner branches of the fir. "The wood has to be dry," he explained, "so that as little smoke as possible escapes."

A meal — their first in the wild — was called for, and hard bread and dried fruit seemed a harsher meal compared to those eaten in the warm dining hall of Imladris. The horses were given their nose-bags to champ in. Yet it was not wholly unsatisfying: much better than bully beef and petrol tea, thought Davies. Ernest offered to take first watch as the sun rose over the mountains.

"There is no need, Thonel. We are moving on."

"Right."

"Remove the feed-bags and mount." Himelon smothered the small fire by stamping on it, kicking the charred remains about until they were nothing but ashes on the mossy rocks. "Menif."

And onwards they plodded through the wasteland, early-morning sun shining cold and white above them.

* * *

The scouts returned mid-afternoon, battered and weary. There had been a storm on the last northward stretch, and their gear was damp and musty yet. Elrohir led, sitting straight despite the hard road; Glindir brought up the rear, clinging on to an ellon with a slung arm and a bandage over both eyes. The horse of the injured one trotted beside them, free of burden save for the saddlebags.

"Ai Elladan! Are your walking-party safe and sound? Have you done any deeds worthy of song?"

"Alas, no," came the answer, clipped and devoid of laughter. "We had grim business. I do not care to jest with you at this moment in time."

"That is a crying shame, master Elladan. Hoy — who does Glindir drag along in such a miserable condition?"

"I have said once before that I am in no mood to joke. Kindly let us make our way to the infirmary, that the one in 'such a miserable condition' may be treated."

"You are uncommon brusque, ma—"

" _Enough_." They trotted along the path in silence, down to the valley that was their home. It was not long before another voice came from the trees — this time addressed to Glindir.

"Do you not hear master Elladan?"

"I hear him well enough; this is an urgent matter."

Glindir motioned towards his injured charge, who muttered, "Let him go on, if he will be brief."

"See, Dognir. He is in urgent need of care. There is only so much one not skilled in the arts physic can do."

"It is a matter concerning your son."

"I would fain come back to discuss this with you, Dognir, but _not now_." Glindir spurred his horse on, adjusting his passenger so that he would be more comfortable.

"Glindir."

"Yes?"

"I will take him to Osgariel. You may stay here and speak to Dognir." Ivron, the fifth of their company, slowed, and took his arms about the injured member — named Manadhon. "It is no difficult task."

"Thank you, Ivron. But it is not necessary."

"If you dally for another minute, it will become so. Here." Before Glindir could protest, Ivron took Manadhon quickly but gently onto his own horse, motioning for him to remain behind. "I know your son is dear to you."

"Very well. But take him to the infirmary. Quickly." The scouting company, save one member, made their way swiftly into the heart of the valley, and Glindir dismounted, striding up to the bottom of the tree in which Dognir was stationed. "Now, Dognir. What is your business with me?"

"Glindir — your son passed me early this morn, laden with gear. It seems that he and his two friends have gone out to seek a fortune, or something of that order. I thought you had right to know."

The man was silent.

"He claims he will go north until the Ettenmoors, and then west."

"Go on."

"I gave him my great-grandmother's brooch as a talisman."

"Is that so?"

"Yes." It seemed to Dognir that Glindir had gone white, though he could not divine whether it was due to worry or rage. "That is all. You may join your compatriots now, if you wish."

"Thank you, Dognir." Glindir swung himself onto his mount and took his horse on a walk down the steep slope, paying scant attention to the verdant fields and the crisp air.

The first thing Glindir put his mind to upon arriving at the household of Elrond was the condition of Manadhon. He found the hapless man under Osgariel's care, his bandages changed and his wounds cleaned. "How fares he?" Glindir questioned the healer, his hands jerking towards the bandages encircling Manadhon's head.

"He fares well, Glindir. His shoulder is not much of a concern; you pulled the joint back into its socket properly and it is on the way to recovery. The eyes —" she glanced at his hands, nervously undoing the bandages "— there is no need to do that, master Glindir. They have been changed and I have inspected the wounds. He was clubbed by an orc, so I have been told, and the blow landed upon one eye and scraped across. One eye is bruised and bloodshot. Both are severely scratched on the lids."

"Not infected, I hope."

"Measures have been taken to prevent that."

"Good." Reluctantly, Glindir let his hand away from Manadhon's head and turned to leave. "Thank you for your ministration, Osgariel. I am sure that master Elrond will see to him presently."

"Perhaps tomorrow, Glindir."

The man swept out of the room and to his chambers.

Nibeniel met him there, taking off his mud-spattered cloak and aiding his feet in their struggle out of their tight-fitting boots. It was naught but a courtesy — Glindir was perfectly capable shedding his outer layers himself — but he found comfort in the gesture and thanked his daughter with a tired nod.

"Water is heating for a bath, ada."

"Good."

"What ails you? Your voice is weary, and you are taciturn."

"It is nothing." He heaved himself from his chair and made his way to the bathroom, where a steaming tub awaited him. Eagerly, the ellon disrobed and sunk into the hot water, feeling the oils within soothe his aching muscles and clear his head; it was with regret that he pulled himself out of the water half an hour later and began to wring out his sopping hair. Pulling on a soft linen robe over an under-tunic and braies, Glindir wound his way back to the sitting-room. His daughter was there, partaking of a tray of tea and sweetmeats from the kitchens. She rose as he entered, holding up a second cup of tea.

"Rest, father. You are weary."

"I am not weary," replied Glindir curtly, though he took the earthenware cup into one hand and drank.

"You sound as though you are."

Glindir heaved a sigh and sat down, saying nothing. To his confusion, Nibeniel's eyes filled with tears. "Father — is it — Himelon?"

"Dognir told me of his departure as I made to enter the valley."

"You know?" She wiped her eyes with her fingers, leaning forward over the tea-tray. "Are you angry?"

"I wish I was not, and I should not be. The child is past his majority. He is responsible for his own missteps. But the advice against doing so that I gave in his hearing went unheeded, and _that_ I cannot abide," he replied sharply.

"Oh, ada — I understand —"

"May I speak to your mother?"

"She is at the loom, and she will be available after the evening meal." Nibeniel took another sugared cake from the plate and bit into it. "Take another dram of tea. It will do you good."

"Very well, sellig."

The rest of the tea was taken in silence — Glindir chewed and swallowed gloomily, running his mind through a seemingly infinite list of ways Himelon could be killed. Each time he caught a worried stare from his daughter, the man glared back.

The tea itself was bitter.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Ivron - Crystal

Manadhon - Fate

When I refer to hemlock-leaves, I refer to the species _tsuga_ , a species of evergreen tree named 'hemlock' due to its resemblance to the actual poisonous plant itself. There was some research as to whether Tolkien actually meant 'hemlock' at all, but I shall take the reference to 'the hemlock-umbels' in the _Lay of Leithian_ literally.

Thanks for reading.

 **A.B.C.**


	22. The Army Never Leaves You

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Himelon stopped the two and proceeded to make camp under the relative shelter of a copse of firs. Behind it was a narrow stream. Pieces of ice could be discerned making their way down the water — no wonder, for the source of the water lay in colder parts.

"If you wish to bathe, bathe now. We will only find brooks colder and less hospitable than this as we travel northwards." He twisted his mouth wryly as Béti shivered and grimaced. Being accustomed to ample opportunities for washing oneself, Himelon began to shuck his own clothes, rummaging inside one of the saddlebags for the small bar of soap he had brought with him. The rush of cold air onto his bare torso made his lungs contract and his heart beat a brief tattoo against his ribcage; only the thought of a warm fire upon return could force his toes into the swiftly running water.

Shivers coursed up his spine as his ankles submerged, and, slowly, his calves. Himelon had swum in the Bruinen in its spring-freshness, but even the invigorating chill of the playfully rushing water could not compare to the slicing cold of a stream in Rhudaur's winter. He forced himself to wade to the center, where the water covered enough to satisfy his decency.

"A Himelon!"

The ellon looked up, fairly scraping his arms with the soap in a futile effort to generate some warmth. "Thonel! You have come to brave the cold, I see."

"How cold _is_ the water?"

"Freezing." Himelon grinned, and threw him the soap. "Movement helps."

The young man slid into the water all at once, and yelled as icy pain knived through his limbs. "You were right," he gasped, arms hugging himself fiercely. "Freezing."

"Not so loud! Should some servant of the Enemy hear us, I doubt that Béti would be capable of holding him off for long."

Unable to reply, Thonel set himself to building up a pitiful lather with the sweet-smelling soap. Himelon took that to mean that he was miffed.

"I do not suggest he is a poor guard — only that he may not be a match for a horde of orcs and goblins. You have never seen orcs before, am I correct?"

"Oh — no — never." The Man laughed weakly and winced as he dipped his face into the current, making contact with a shard of ice.

"You are fortunate."

"Have _you_ seen an orc?"

"Once." Himelon began to wade his way back to the bank, regretting his bath: he was numb from the hips down. "I was thirty-seven years of age, and my father deemed me mature enough to accompany him on one of his shorter sojourns in the Wild."

"What happened?"

"Mayhap I will tell you later — when we are not naked and shivering in ice-water."

Pulling on his braies and under-tunic, Himelon limped rather ungracefully back to the camp, willing his legs not to collapse. Béti crouched beside a fire, warming his hands, and looked up as Himelon arrived. "Your flint and steel is difficult to use. But I made something of it after a few minutes."

"It takes patience, Béti."

"From where I hail, we have something called _matches_. They make a flame in a very short time. I believe Thonel still possesses some."

Thonel stumbled back just then, wrestling with his tie, his face and hands pasty. "What do I have?"

" _Matches_." The word confounded Himelon; it must have been something of the _Ínglis_ that his companions spoke. But Thonel seemed to understand, for he pulled out a small metal box from the pocket of the strange tunic he wore. From the box he produced a small wooden stick with a brightly coloured tip, which he scraped against the box's side. The tip of the stick exploded into flame so quickly it startled Himelon, and he jumped back almost involuntarily. "Avo drasto!" Thonel smiled, extinguished the flame by shaking the stick and threw it behind him. "It will not hurt you, so long as you kindle and kill the flame quickly."

"Those will be useful in the future, Thonel. Can you spare them?"

The young man riffled through these strange articles with an index finger. "I have ten."

"Flint and steel will have to do for mundane fires then, I am afraid. We will need to make more than ten fires if you wish to travel to the Sea."

The _matches_ were pocketed with a loving pat, and Thonel crouched down by the crackling fire. It was eerily dark now: fir-trees seemed grand and kingly cast in the benevolent glow of sunset, but now they pressed in on the three men as they began a meagre meal of waybread and dried fruits. Even Himelon's keen eyes could not pierce the darkness beyond to hunt.

Having traveled for three or four days, such meals had become a staple, and cravings for finer and more sumptuous fare could now be curbed more easily. Béti, having grown to love the comfort of Imladris, had found the sharp transition the hardest. Thonel endured the relative privation uncomplainingly. The ellon himself found that wheaten wafers kept his strength remarkably well, and was not fazed by the smaller portions — even if his stomach was wont to growl again a mere three hours afterwards. Mindless talk and company lightened the burden.

"Himelon!" Thonel grinned at him from the other side of the fire. "Do you wish to learn some of our tongue?"

"It is highly foreign." The ellon stared into the flames, watching as they spat out their sparks, leaving tiny glowing spots on the earth that extinguished themselves within the second. _Each of these is the life of a Man, and the fire an Elf,_ he thought. _To the fire, the life of each spark is naught but a second. And fire shall only die if it is put out, or if it runs out of fuel._ At an attempt to continue the analogy, his lips twitched. _Save that Men do not come from Elves_.

"Well — do you wish to learn it?"

"I _do_ believe it would be interesting to be able to understand your conversations —"

"Then you say yes."

"Perhaps you ought to have a little privacy —"

"You will learn it," said Thonel. "I will teach you some words. First: _faea_."

" _Faea_? What is that?"

" _A faea_ is what you call _naur_ in your tongue."

" _Faea_. Fire. Your tongue seems so far removed from mine."

"Make your sound wider. In the last letter."

" _Faea_."

" _Fire_. And more closed after the _f_."

" _F — ai — a_."

"Open your mouth less. Like this. _Ai_. _Uh._ "

" _Fai-uh_." Himelon managed, by some strange contortion of his throat and mouth, to release a sound in the last syllable that was vaguely similar to how Thonel had demonstrated. " _Fai-uh_. _Naur_."

"Close enough." Then, in his mothertongue — " _Wat du yú thenk, Béti_?"

" _Bludi gud_ ," Béti replied, chuckling heartily. "Well done, Himelon. Once you can make the sounds, _Ínglis_ will be easy for you."

"I doubt it." Chewing his lip, he glanced into recess of the fire-pit, the foreign word making twists and turns about his head. _Fai-uh_. _Fai-uh_. The night was still about him, the crackling of the flames notwithstanding. The chill from the river had begun to seep into the air now, and he shuddered. "Who will take first watch?"

"Béti will take it."

"Why me?"

"I am tired, and have been taking first watch for the past two nights," grumbled Thonel, and Himelon could see him blink sluggishly and rub his eyes. "I had better sleep as the urge takes me."

"That is fair enough. Rest, Thonel." Himelon heaved himself from his ungainly crouch and made to relieve himself. Having done so by a tree sufficiently far enough for privacy, he dragged his pack to the base of another fir by the fire and lay down, letting his eyelids droop comfortably, watching the fire slowly begin to die as dreams began to blur themselves before him.

Vaguely, he heard the rustling of Thonel's cloak as the young man lay himself down to sleep also. For a while, there was the sound of tossing and turning, as he attempted to find a comfortable position for himself, but quiet reigned again after a while.

Himelon had almost fallen into the dumb heaviness of mortal sleep when the fire was nothing but tiny dots of glowing embers. From the edges of his hearing came an urgent, almost tearful whisper, and a steady reply. All in the cursed _Ínglis_ , of course. It must have been a change of watches; for Béti's heavy tread came closer, and there was an abrupt thump, and a sigh, and then — again — silence.

* * *

Thornhill did not need to wake either of the men. Himelon was already up, taking out a measure of bread and fruit for breakfast. Bertie, meanwhile, stretched luxuriously and grimaced at the pain in his back. "Tomorrow night, I'll sleep on the ground, not tree-roots," he said, heaving himself up and groaning.

The last crumb of the bread was hardly finished before preparations to go ahead were made. The ashes of last night's fire were kicked into the dust; the horses were saddled and mounted. Especial care was taken to fill each water-skin up to the brim with water from the stream, for there was no telling when the next source of water would be reached. Despite having sat almost exclusively upon a horse for the last four days, Thornhill found his rear end still tender from his mount's jolting trot, and his legs stiff from walking when the horses tired, or could not navigate the terrain thus burdened.

"I believe we shall enter once-inhabited lands today," remarked Himelon. "Rhudaur was once a fine kingdom before it fell afoul of Angmar. The latter destroyed the former two thousand years ago."

"You seem to know much history of this place."

"I only know what I have been told, and what I remember of it at that."

"Do you know more?"

"The kingdom of Rhudaur was the result of a breaking-up of the northern kingdom of Arnor. We will reach its border at the Weather Hills. My father had travelled into Rhudaur once, close to its decline; he told me it was not a pleasant place."

"I can imagine so. What are the 'Weather Hills'?"

"Some hills to the west."

"Oh." Thornhill spurred his horse on — he and Himelon were falling behind. Himelon was correct: around him Thornhill began to see the marks of what was once civilisation. One path they followed led them between the ruins of two guard-posts, crumbling and almost bending underneath their own weight. This must have been an old village. Squares of stone suggested houses; larger areas must have been inns or taverns. What had once been a road that wound about the village was now overgrown with grass, and the horses trod through delicately, leaving nary a hoof-print behind.

The sky above seemed to move, for there was a wind that played with Thornhill's hair (the curls were beginning to grow again, slowly) and the clouds above shifted with it. A hillock rose before the men, relatively green and smooth. "Let's canter up there," suggested Thornhill, bored with the proceedings.

"Canter?" Davies appeared alarmed.

"Why not?"

"Well — won't the horses be tired?"

"Don't be silly; we'll rest afterwards. It's nearly noon, anyhow."

"I do not speak your language," Himelon reminded Thornhill from behind. "Would you kindly repeat in the elven-tongue?"

"I wish to go fast up the hill. As a jest."

"The horses are unable to canter up such a steep slope. But you may dismount and run if you wish." Himelon grinned, dissolving the unusually serious expression on his face.

"That will do. Bertie, let's race."

" _What_!?"

"Get off your horse. Race you to the top."

"Bloody hell, Ernest, I haven't—"

"Come _on_!" Fairly leaping off his horse, Thornhill began to sprint up the knoll, the momentum pressing the wind into his face. Such delight he had not felt in a long time: the exhilaration of such speed, the joy in the exertion of his pumping legs —

He felt his hair flying behind him, and his heart pounding, his lungs straining to catch a breath as he ran — the sweat began to gather on his brow, beading into droplets — and he could hear Bertie panting behind him, and then beside him — _I must come out top, I_ must —

Gasping raggedly, laughing, he stumbled upon the top of the hill. Bertie stood there already, triumphant, but Thornhill was too winded to mind. His face seemed frozen into a smile — and wild happiness coursed through his veins, pulsing with his pounding heart. He ripped off his tunic and loosened his tie, mopping his forehead with one arm. "Not a bad race, Bertie, eh?"

"I haven't done this since I was fifteen," replied the older man, plopping himself down onto the grass. "Seems I'm still fit, however."

"Well — you beat me."

"I did indeed." He sighed, and was silent for a while.

Himelon brought up the rear, leading the three horses and chuckling at the two rash young men gasping for breath. "There is a fine view here indeed, but we must travel a while more before the midday meal."

"Sadly."

They came upon another former village a few miles later. They would not have known, had Himelon not procured an old map from his knapsack and told them. Stones here seemed kicked about, roads grown over with nettles and thistles that scratched the horses' legs. When Bertie asked if they would stop here, Himelon replied that it was too unpleasant a place; besides, he was uncomfortable about resting even for a quarter of an hour in such an open area.

"Surely there is nobody near, Himelon."

"Béti — I have misgivings. What evil lodged here long ago lingers still, and I feel it in my bones. Not here, _please_."

"My rear end pains me," Thornhill piped up. He had in fact used a ruder word that meant roughly the same thing, picked up from a conversation in the forge one day. Himelon sniggered, but was steadfast.

"That is no excuse. I do not want to stop here. You will have to listen to me in this matter, and you will thank me later."

Further they went, the horses at a torturous plod, until the cheap imitation of the sun above began to descend from its zenith. Then, Himelon stopped them. "Eat quickly. I wish to cross Mitheithel at the end of these next two or three days."

He himself took nothing, having no need for it. Thornhill wondered how he managed; in France, he had always been surly without a proper meal. Indeed, he had found himself more irritable here for the plainer, more frugal fare — something almost forgotten while he had basked in the luxury of Imladris. Waybread and fruit settled in his stomach, he was chivvied back onto his mount and the men began another stretch northwards. The silence around was eerie in its thickness.

On they travelled, walking and riding by turns, until Thornhill's seat was numb and his legs were leaden. As the sun began a downward descent below the horizon, the young man stumbled, scraping the skin off his hands as he broke his fall. Blood bloomed from the scratches sluggishly, and he found himself staring dumbly at them, leaving Himelon and Bertie to go ahead as he stood, watching the blood ooze and run down his wrists.

It took five minutes for Thornhill to come to himself.

Rubbing his hands on his tunic, he took his horse by the rein again and marched forward — forward — forward — his head seemed to swim mildly, distorting the high, stony hills of Rhudaur into a greenish-grey blur. How he caught up with the other two was a mystery to him. It was time to mount again, and Thornhill heaved himself back into the saddle, groaning quietly as the landscape made a round-about turn. Waves of nausea began to wash over him, and Rhudaur was mud.

Mud! Churned up with blood, and bodies littering the ground in various states of injury, _bleeding_ —

There was a roar in Thornhill's ears — he could discern a faint screaming noise, coming from the distance — _someone was hurt_ —

His heels dug into the horse's flanks of their own accord, fairly galloping towards the screaming. He wasn't himself. He wasn't himself. He wasn't — _what's happening —_ someone was hurt, and he was running towards them, or away —

The screaming seemed to melt into shouting now, barely reaching Thornhill's ears. Shouting in English — and another language that wasn't French or German — something else —

" _Slow down_!"

The mist cleared, and Thornhill felt his back chill with sweat, his face dripping with it. His mount was no better off; foam coated its flanks and neck. Vaguely, he felt a warm, calloused hand grip his and an arm heave him off the saddle. He did not like the warmth. Wresting his hand from the other, he wiped his forehead and realised his palms were bleeding again. If the nausea had disappeared in the midst of frenzied galloping, it returned now with a vengeance, turning his stomach until he had to grip something for support. In the midst of a confusion as to whether he ought to vomit or burst out crying, a voice could be heard — "He is not well — we ought to rest here —"

"I am only tired." Thornhill's voice came thin. "We can go on."

"Don't make me laugh, Ernest. What were you thinking, galloping like blazes until you were nearly falling out of the saddle?"

"I — don't know. I wasn't thinking." He was coming to himself now, and saw that he was lying down, and Himelon and Bertie were staring at him, worry in their eyes. "I feel sick."

"Water-disease," Himelon put in. "Perhaps we did not boil the water enough."

"No. I can get up. I'm not that sick."

"Are you sure."

Silently the young man heaved himself up and mounted again. He could not have walked; his legs were weak as a hysterical woman's, and were liable to collapse at any point in time. The sun was sinking and making things cold now.

Bertie slowed until the horses were in step, ambling sedately by one another. "What's the matter with you, boy?"

"Don't call me that."

"All right then, _Ernest_. What's wrong?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you feel the need to gallop away like that?"

"Something came over me. I heard people screaming. I thought I'd — just — make sure they were —"

"Screaming, you say?"

"Like they'd been hurt. Like — like —"

"Like you were in France again, and shells are flying over, and there's dead bodies with no heads and no arms and no faces, and you feel like you've gone back in time," finished Bertie, nodding sagely.

"Like that." Thornhill felt the sudden urge to look away; a flush was coming up on his cheeks and shame burned in the pit of his stomach. "I'm sorry. Bloody funk, that's all it is."

"It's quite all right, Ernest. Nothing quite gets to you here like the silence."

"Yes." He paused, then continued quietly. "Oh, damn — yes."

The light was dying, and he could not see Bertie's face too well: only a thick, black beard and black eyes that twinkled genially. The journey was going all right for him.

"I say, Bertie — do you miss the kids, sometimes?"

"I can't say I don't."

"Well — I suppose we ought to catch up with Himelon, then."

It was the closest thing to comfort as Thornhill found himself riding between his companions, his horse continuing its unhurried walk — one hoof forward at a time — a small arsenal against the looming night. The looming, silent night, with the mountains far away on one side and the hills on the other, and nothing but land ahead. Peace at last.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Avo drasto - don't worry (some may remember this from chapter 3)

Mitheithel - the Hoarwell

Thank you to all who have been reading so far.

My regards,

 **A.B.C.**


	23. Interlude (ft Nibeniel and Thindor)

Nibeniel held onto the finely-crafted boots — made in the style of the Golodhrim — a second too long. Her father noticed, and wondered why.

"Not you also, father. I shall have nobody to look after me."

"Sellig — you surpass five _în_ in age. You are fully capable of looking after yourself, and you have your mother besides."

"You, and Himelon — why — soon I shall be all alone here!"

"Do not take it too hard, sellig. I only accompany the sons of Elrond, Halbarad and his men to the South, to aid Aragorn in his endeavours." Glindir pulled his boots on, straining; they cleaved to his feet and calves as a second skin.

"With a battle-standard lovingly crafted by the lady Arwen," replied Nibeniel bitterly. "Do not fool me! Mother has told me everything: how she weaved it using our finest black silks; how she broidered every stitch of that star to perfection; even how finely the edges were hemmed — more finely than one would hem the shirt of a king —"

"There is no denying there will be battle. Nevertheless, remember this: Himelon did not leave for war."

"I know, father, but —"

"The sons of Elrond wait impatiently. My sword and bow, if you please." Wordlessly, Nibeniel handed them over. "And may Glindir have a kiss from his daughter before he leaves?"

She strained on the tips of her toes, dutifully pecking her father on both cheeks, turning away ere her heels touched the ground again. Without another glance Glindir's way, Nibeniel swept back to the kitchens; there was bread to be baked for the evening meal.

* * *

It was with perplexity that Thindor reached for a book in the shelves of Elrond's extensive libraries, his ears burning uncomfortably. Ten minutes ago, Mélil had confessed to him that she had held a secret fancy for him for many years now, and she ached to be wed to him. Thindor did not understand. Mélil was his _friend_ — the idea that he ought to be wed to her was foreign. No Elf would marry in such times — such times of war and turmoil — why, it was simply impossible!

Thindor had told her such, and watched as she nodded, turned and walked away with a speed that had suggested she had been upset by his words.

But he had been correct: marriage was an event for times of peace, not these dark years. For a long while had he been one of Elrond's advisors, and he knew what the fate of these lands rested on: a halfling. A stunted child-that-was-not-a-child. And the rest of his kind stood back, bating their breath, _knowing_ that if evil were to be rendered victorious, they were helpless. Thindor could not partake any longer in the fate of Middle-Earth — he was helpless, gormless, a mere bystander, waiting — and Mélil wanted to marry him.

This was not love; it was sheer empty-headedness. If Mélil had loved him, she would have waited another year, another two years — a trifle for the _edhellen_ — thereby giving him peace to wait through war alone.

How could he marry a friend?


	24. Crossing the Hoarwell

"Rise and shine, Thornhill, you good-for-nothing, lazy—"

"I thought you'd given up being a horrible drill-sergeant, Bertie," mumbled Ernest, turning over onto his face.

"Well, Davies the devil shall return shortly if you don't get up now," Davies replied, shifting his booted foot under Ernest's abdomen to turn him over. "Himelon's been awake for fifteen minutes."

"All right, all right —" Ernest cringed away from Davies' boot and attempted to drag himself upright. "But let a fellow get his sleep next time, won't you?"

"Hardly possible."

After making a sound that reminded Davies remarkably of a wounded bull, Ernest succeeded in heaving himself into a sitting position. The lad looked almost unwell: his eyes were bloodshot and shadowed in dark rings, his skin a shade paler than was usual for him. No wonder — the nightmares that had come once or twice in Imladris were plaguing him now, ridding him of any ability or want of sleep.

Himelon squatted by a boulder, unpacking another measure of bread and fruit. As Davies approached, he glanced upwards, concerned. "Supplies are dwindling. I had better hunt today, if there is game for my arrows."

"Supplies are — what?"

"They are becoming less. Getting smaller. You know what I mean."

"Dwindling — getting smaller. Yes."

"Call your friend over and we shall break our fast. Then I wish to get us gone from here."

Ernest came over in due time, and took his share of bread and fruit. Breakfast was over in five minutes; Himelon set immediately to saddling the horses, and another day stretched before them — to be filled only by the tedious task of riding and walking by intervals. Davies was tired of it. The scenery about him, having stayed the same for the last week, went largely unnoticed. What beauty it contained chafed on the eyes of the beholder.

To hasten the time, Davies began to hum. Music did something to alleviate the wild silence about him, and recalling old songs was a good way to keep his mind sharp. _I'm 'Enery the Eighth, I am_ , he mumbled under his breath, snorting in remembrance of the ridiculous lyrics. That had been a good night — on leave from the Army, he'd taken Gertrude to London to see an act by Harry Champion. He'd laughed himself red in the face at that one.

"What queer song are you singing, Béti? It sounds almost like a bawdy ditty of the Edain."

"Was I singing?"

"Yes." Himelon grinned widely.

"It is a song from my home land. Many people loved it."

"Sing it again."

"Er —"

Ernest, evidently sensing a mildly interesting altercation, pulled up. "What were you singing, Bertie?"

"Just —" Davies felt his face flame, and he laughed nervously. "Just a music-hall song."

"Oh! Which one?"

"I do not speak your Ínglis," reminded Himelon helpfully. Davies ignored him.

"Henry the Eighth."

At that, Ernest let out a burst of laughter that nearly unseated him, unsettling his usually placid mount. "I know that one! Henry Champion, wasn't it?"

"Harry."

"Oh, yes. Saw him in London, summer hols of — what — nineteen-thirteen? What a scream! Seems such a long while ago, doesn't it?"

"He _was_ quite funny."

"Thonel — Béti —" Himelon started as the former began a reprise of ' _Enery the Eighth_ with much enthusiasm and little skill, motioning for Davies to sing along. Resistance was futile; the man found himself yodelling —

" _I'm 'Enery the Eighth I am,_

' _Enery the Eighth I am, I am!_

 _I got married to the widow next door_

 _She's been married seven times before —_

 _And every one was an 'Enery_

 _She wouldn't have a Willie nor a Sam_

 _I'm her eighth old man named 'Enery_

' _Enery the Eighth I am!_ "

"Gracious! I should think you have had too much wine, save that we brought none along."

"Song is better than wine, do you not think so Himelon?" Davies, much cheered by the scrap of verse.

"I must agree."

"I know some more songs, if you wish to hear them."

"Well —" Himelon said, spurring his horse on, "— perhaps I ought to sing one first. To return the — _favour_." The last word emerged with a peculiar twist of the mouth, as though he had eaten something too sour. Davies snorted.

"Go on."

"I do not have the _fairest_ of voices —"

"You said you would sing."

"Oh — very well." Taking a deep breath, Himelon began a strain of a ballad often sung in the Hall of Fire, the words of which Davies vaguely recognised. His lips curled into a smile as he heard them; Himelon's voice was a fine tenor, smooth and youthful, each syllable of lyric rolling out with incredible ease. By comparison, Davies' gravelly baritone belonged in a tavern somewhere in Soho.

"You lie; you have a very fair voice," remarked Ernest as the last notes died on Himelon's lips. "Fairer than mine — and Béti's — I should say."

"There are many with voices fairer than mine. I am quite untalented by the measure of my people; to you, all our voices are fair."

Davies switched to English. "Fair enough." He found the horses were walking rather slowly — the singing must have distracted them. Digging his heels into his mount's flanks, he murmured some sort of command into its ear and motioned to the others to speed up. It was ten minutes before anybody said anything after that.

"Ae Bertie — d'you know any more songs?"

"Ernest. We've got to make some progress. We can't just keep singing."

"Right. But you know a few more, don't you? How often did you go to the music hall?"

"Not often. Of course, I know 'Tipperary', "Oh, it's a Lovely War' and all that."

Ernest groaned and pulled a face. "Oh, of course we know all _those_. How about some others? D'you know 'Nellie Dean'?"

" _There's an old mill by the stream, Nellie Dean_ —"

"Yes, that one." Smiling, Ernest began to hum it as the men picked their way across a particularly stony area.

The day went on; the sun rose higher in the sky, warming things a little, and Himelon called eventually for a dismount. It was much hillier in these parts: rocky ways were giving in to ravines. Davies found himself short of breath after a while, exhausted from navigating the long grass. Himelon saw a hare, and shot it with unerring accuracy. Ernest had stopped humming. _Good_ , thought Davies. It had become rather irritating after a while.

Having reached the top of a hill, the three men stopped for a while. Himelon called Davies and Ernest to his side, and motioned for them to sit down. "We will stop here for midday."

"Are we going to eat that?" inquired Ernest, pointing at the carcass.

"Not yet. We cannot make a fire here; we are too visible."

"Oh."

"And I have another worry, Béti, Thonel — I fear we cannot take the horses much further. The terrain is too difficult."

"What will we do with them?"

"That is why I worry." Himelon glanced back anxiously towards the three horses, eating peaceably from their nose-bags. "They are not accustomed to such steep hills. And if we must ford the Mileithel —"

"How far is that river now, anyhow?" Davies put in.

"There it is." Pointing towards a grey line not too far in the distance, Himelon turned Davies' head to follow his hand. "Do you see it?"

"A little. I suppose you can see it better."

"I can. If we are speedy, we may cross it by tonight."

Curiously, Himelon did not move them on straight away. Having finished his scrap of bread and handful of dried currants, he took out a wooden flute from his pack and began to play. Davies recognised the tune, though he could not say where — it took him a little while before he realised it was 'Nellie Dean', as Himelon remembered it.

Thornhill's incessant humming must have imprinted the melody in his mind. For a while, they sat while Himelon played, listening as the breathy notes faded into the air. Davies thought of Gertrude — how long had it been since he had seen her? — and wondered if, one day, he would forget what she looked like. Forget his wife's face — his children's laughs —

"We must move on now, unfortunately." Himelon stood and stuffed the flute back into his pack, before removing the horses' nose-bags and taking the rein of his own. "Lead them back down this hill, and then we move on."

There was more walking and less riding, the terrain being more steep and unpredictable. Many times Davies slipped, tripping over grasses left long ungrazed by any sort of animal. The only living things that perpetuated these places were crows and hares, eagles and other birds of prey that circled the skies. Even Himelon — occasionally bereft of his usual easy grace — skinned his knee, tearing his hose in the process. Rain-clouds, having left the men untroubled for the best part of the week, began to gather upon the horizon and the distant thrum of thunder could be heard. Hoods were put up, but nothing could stop the wearisome walk.

Rain began as a few errant drops upon Davies' head and swiftly crescendoed into heavy ropes of water that soaked man and beast alike. Once or twice, lightning appeared, twin forks snaking their way to earth in a white flash, followed by a menacing growl that seemed to come from the clouds themselves.

Thornhill's mouth moved, but Davies could barely hear him; the young man had gone a good distance ahead. " _WHAT_?" he bellowed — using his rusty sergeant's voice — speeding up to a clumsy lollop.

"We ought to find shelter," came a faint shout.

Himelon answered before Davies could open his mouth. "Not under a tree! If lightning strikes, we should all be slain."

Onwards they trudged, the rain letting up a little as the cloud moved southwards with the wind. Imladris would bear the brunt of that storm later, if it did not break before. Though they walked swiftly, Davies could see no sign of a river anywhere.

"How long until Mileithel?" he asked Himelon, who was wringing his hair, darkened by rain to a dull iron-grey.

"Not long at all. I am confident we shall ford the river by tomorrow."

 _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow seemed a long while away — the men would have to walk until midnight, wearing their heels to blisters, if they continued in this vein. But the only answer was to tighten one's grip on one's pack and lengthen one's stride: rest stops would only waste time.

* * *

That evening had been more pleasant than any other evening, late though it was. Having walked through sunset and into dusk, the three men had eventually laid camp in the lee of a ravine. Against a backdrop of stars slowly winking into existence, Béti and Thonel had taught Himelon the melody of a favourite song: from the sound of it, it was sentimental, and both men knew it well. Long had they sung while Himelon played, until their voices broke into tired rasps, and they declared — coughing — that they could sing no longer. Nevertheless, all three were chuckling as Béti and Thonel bedded down for the night.

Now Himelon was left on watch. Wide open above him yawned the sky, speckled with the stars of Elbereth; the fire at his feet was glowing down to its last embers. He watched it die — _dhuh fae-uh_ was the Ínglis word for it, Himelon remembered. On watch, there always seemed to be a void in his mind, during which there was nothing to think. And the dreams would always come, blending in with the starlight, putting him into a stupor that did not quite qualify as sleep.

Eriador had just eased itself out of a harsh winter, and the night air was still fresh, chilling Himelon's cheeks. He pulled his cloak around himself, got up, and paced to and fro by the fire. The silence of Rhudaur — despite having been his constant companion for the last one-and-a-half weeks — unnerved him, and he found his hand clasping the knife at his belt. _Not that it would fend off half-a-dozen orcs effectively_ , thought Himelon lugubriously. In truth, he was badly equipped for battle; his bow had been designed to hunt, his knife to skin the carcasses. It was a replacement of his father's longbow and sword as though it were for a child, not yet old enough to be trusted with the correct apparatus.

Many hours must have elapsed, for Himelon saw one of the huddled figures a small way off stirring, before heaving itself upwards into a hunched sitting position. Whether it was Thonel or Béti he did not know, but it had its head in its hands. It stayed there for a while.

Once it had braced itself (for that was how it seemed to Himelon) it gathered up the cloak it was using for a blanket and clasped it over its shoulders, before moving to approach the ellon. A slimmer figure and a silhouette of a queerly cut tunic and breeches indicated that it was indeed Thonel.

"Are you taking the next watch?"

"No. You were going to watch the whole night."

"Then why are you here?"

"I —" Thonel's voice broke and he spoke in his own language. " _Ai cud-nt stend et eni mó_."

"Forgive me. What did you say?"

Thonel seemed to have recovered, for he said, "It is nothing. You go sleep now. I will take the rest of the watch."

"Wherefore?"

"I cannot sleep. You may rest now. I am content to take the rest of the watch."

"If you say so," Himelon demurred uneasily. Leaving Thonel to crouch down by the ashes of last night's fire, he moved to lie by Béti, settling himself so that his back touched the man's: he could stand cold nights in the open, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless.

Seeing nothing but acres of long, scraggly grass before him, Himleon's eyes blurred into dreams again.

* * *

Another early rise. Another scant breakfast, made more interesting by the remnants of last night's wild hare. More walking, more riding. The monotony was made more tolerable by Himelon's fine voice: he had lost any inhibition towards making music the day before and now sang freely.

It was halfway to midday by the time the men reached Mileithel. The river was smaller than Davies had imagined it to be: perhaps a yard or two in breadth, and seemingly quite shallow. Whickering, the horses stepped delicately into the water, without so much as flinching against the cold current, though it reached halfway up to Davies' boots. Horses waded slowly, and it took a few minutes before all three men were safe on the other side.

"Ought the horses to dry, Himelon?"

"See how open the land is over there. We shall take them at a good gallop for a few minutes; that should dry them well."

As they crested the ridge on the northern side of Mileithel, Davies saw indeed that there were high, windblown moors, covered in heather and scrubbed grass. It was a pleasant change to the peaks and valleys of southern Rhudaur; the sky seemed wider, arching over the world, and there was a wild sense of loneliness that lifted him. Suddenly, he felt the urge to spur his horse into a gallop.

"Béti! _Baw_!"

"What?"

"We need to check for pebbles in the hooves. I have not done so in a while."

After having dismounted, Davies watched as Himelon picked up each hoof in turn, inspecting it and flicking away anything lodged inside it. He did this with all three horses, before sheathing his knife and straightening his back with a grimace. "Now, we may make our way across the moors and have our gallop." He grinned. "I have been awaiting this gladly for a while."

At first, as his horse sped into a canter, and then a gallop, Davies feared that he would pitch forwards over the front of his seat. But the wind blew his hair and his cloak back, and there was nothing but the rushing in his ears and the drum of the hooves upon the ground — and for the first time, Davies felt that he rather enjoyed riding after all. There was something ancient and classical about galloping with one's hair streaming out behind oneself, and it was almost as if he was frozen in time, immortalised by an artist's brush.

The ride was over almost too soon. Davies pulled up to Ernest and Himelon, who, being more daring equestrians, had gotten ahead. Both were laughing at the sheer exhilaration that great speed brought, and the open sky above them, and the feeling that they were the only people in the whole wide world.

It did not last long.

"Himelon — where do we camp tonight?"

"Wherever there is cover." The ellon glanced about him, but there was not a tree in sight. "I worry that something will happen; we have not been approached since we left Imladris."

"That is true."

"Perhaps we may find another ravine. I doubt there is anything here, for the orcs rarely place themselves where there is nothing to ravage."

"That is also true."

For the time being, the men stopped where they were, eating the last of their fruit with the waybread. The next meal, they would start upon the nuts. Himelon sat with his flute again, improvising melodies that carried out across the plain, heard by nobody but them and the buzzards wheeling above. There seemed to be much more music here now; Himelon's wariness had dissipated and caution had been tempered with mirth. It seemed sensible, for the men had not so much as seen anything bigger than a deer for three weeks, and chances of being attacked seemed to slim the longer they had been travelling.

Whatever unseen force had pressed the men on before crossing the river seemed to have disappeared. Walking was done at a much slower pace. Riding consisted of alternately walking and going at a canter, the purpose of the latter being to occupy Ernest in racing his compatriots across the moor. Indeed, Davies thought, the young man had more life in him now. Though the shadows under his eyes remained, his cheeks had gotten some colour into them, and his lips had returned to their natural thoughtful set, no longer looking so drawn.

For the first time in many days, Davies noticed, as he rose to take Himelon's watch, that Ernest was sleeping soundly. Even as the dark waned into dawn, Ernest did not wake. No nightmares seemed to trouble him that night.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Baw - don't do that

Thank you for bearing with me during this unwontedly long absence. Certain events these past two months (mock examinations not the least) had conspired to render my keyboard untouched when it came to this story. So here, at long last, I present you with a new chapter and a little interlude. Hope you enjoy, folks.

God bless,

 **A.B.C.**


	25. Westward Away

**WARNING** Some graphic description of injury in this chapter. Those of you who are squeamish may want to read with discretion.

* * *

"It's a long, long way —" Thornhill enunciated the words as carefully as he could, jolting about in an easy trot.

"Eets ah lahng, lahng wai—"

"Close enough." The men were making their way across the moor in a roughly westward fashion, keeping themselves warm by teaching Himelon the lyrics to 'It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary'. At least — the chorus. It was quite difficult to get the ellon to absorb the words without having to explain the meaning of each and every one. Nevertheless, they got on admirably, even if Himelon's pronunciation was questionable and the stress strange at best.

"—to Tipperary—"

"To — what?"

"Tipperary. It was a — a village — no —" Thornhill wracked his brains for the word for _town_ , but found himself blank. Unlike Davies, who was near-fluent after roughly six months of life in Imladris, he had no head for languages, and Edhellen was no exception.

" _Caras_."

"Thanks, Bertie. It was a town in my old world. I do not know why it is in this song, but it is."

"It is so difficult to pronounce," lamented Himelon, trying gamely but bungling the word every time. "Tee — pair — airr — ee."

So they went in this fashion, ambling along (for the horses had been slowed to a walk to ease difficulties in enunciation) the wide, grassy hills, going through the chorus line by line. It seemed to Thornhill that Himelon's mind was marvellously flexible, and remembered everything easily, though he knew nothing of what it meant. _Soon_ , he thought gloomily, _he'll be begging for a translation. Oh well_ — he brightened as it came into his head — _at least Bertie can do it for me_. Next, after the words, came the tune. Again, line by line, they sang it, until Himelon could repeat the chorus all at once in his fine tenor. It was strange to hear him sing in English; such voices Thornhill had begun to associate with the haunting fantasies of the Hall of Fire, rather than simple marching songs from Blighty.

Thornhill got bored of the proceedings eventually, and suggested a race. "It'll liven us up a bit," he argued. "And besides, Bertie — we've gotten so _boring_ — let's have a bit of fun, shall we?"

"All right," conceded Bertie. "Himelon — we are going to race. Last one to reach that hill there must sing the song in full."

"I shall gird my loins and spur my horse on, then." The ellon's face split into a broad grin, and the three of them were off, galloping with all their might towards the hill. Predictably, Thornhill and Himelon were neck and neck, with Bertie trailing behind. The poor man still held his dislike of riding, despite the fact it was all he had been doing for the past weeks.

So the laughing youths waited as he pulled up with a wry twist of the mouth. "I suppose I must sing, then."

"The whole song."

"Well — so I must. _Up to mighty London…_ " Davies began to sing — embarrassedly, at first, but gaining momentum as the music caught him.

Himelon and Thornhill listened appreciatively for a while, before the former cut him off. They ought to be moving on, he said, and while gaiety was welcome, they were wasting their time now. There were places to go. Their journey had a purpose.

"What sort of a purpose?" asked Thornhill.

"Why, you have said so yourself. To find your homeland. Do you not wish to return whence you came?"

"I — had forgotten. That we wanted to find — it — this journey seems to be —"

"Let us go now, and remind ourselves of it, then. I fear we are growing unwary and frivolous. Come." He nudged his steed into a trot, urged the men to do the same, and off they went.

Thornhill held his mount back, urging Himelon that he could go ahead if he wanted. In truth, he was irritated that the ellon insisted on 'business as usual', and complained bitterly to Bertie. _Thank God that ellon still doesn't know English_. "So much for fun. We just start loosening up instead of looking around us every which way, and there he goes — _remind yourself of your purpose_. Bloody hell, it's not like we're going to get attacked! What'll we get attacked by? The hawks up there?" He snorted.

"He's not being unreasonable, Ernest."

"Oh, so _you're_ at it too."

"You're being very childish, Ernest. Have you really forgotten the War already? Imagine what would happen if we all got rid of the sentries the moment Jerry stopped shooting — we'd all be blown to —"

" _Enough already_!" Thornhill jerked his horse to a stop, ignoring its indignant snort. Some sort of a hysteria was hovering at the edge of his mind, and he would not — _would not_ — let it take him over. "Enough about the _war_ , and _what if_ , and _remember your past_. I've had enough of it! I get my first peaceful night's sleep in — oh, two weeks? And you go on about the War like we're still part of it. We're not! And we'll never be again!"

"I doubt a single mention of our old life in the trenches would bring on another nightmare. Your nerves have been getting out of hand lately."

"Bertie, you don't understand — even in the day, I'd — I'd just —"

"There's no need to panic, boy. Calm yourself down and stop this silliness."

" _Don't call me that_!"

"I shall if you stop acting like one."

Thornhill swore loudly, wheeled his horse about, and cantered in Himelon's direction. If Bertie wouldn't stop acting like his father, then he would remove himself from his presence. So much for complaining — if nobody would listen to his troubles, then so be it. He was done with them.

The next part of the ride was awkward at best. Bertie rode along morosely, a pensive look on his face. Thornhill carried on with a cheap imitation of his former cheer, chatting inanely with Himelon over any topic that he felt was within his linguistic capabilities. The silver-haired ellon nodded, smiled, and attempted to pick up the threads of a swiftly failing conversation. Inwardly, Thornhill cringed, knowing he had unjustly railed both of his companions, but he would not let that show. He _would_ keep everybody cheerful — keep up morale, as he once had to do in days so long past that they seemed like a past life.

"You may stop now." Bertie spoke — finally. "I was wondering — when do we stop for the midday meal?"

"Soon. The sun is high in the sky," replied Himelon.

"Good." And so another inconsequential, empty conversation ended.

* * *

It was Himelon who saw them first. He cursed himself for having missed them; his eyes were the keenest of the three, and just like him, he would be looking in another direction. He watched as they prowled down from the North, rooted to the spot. Later, Himelon would regret that he hadn't warned his companions earlier. Now, however, he was paralysed, his mouth dry, his heart hammering against his ribs. There was no hiding — not in this place — curse the Ettenmoors! Of course there would have been something there, just waiting —

He watched as, spotting the three, they broke into a smooth run, coursing across the moors, almost slavering with what he assumed was hunger. Obviously! It had been a long winter, and there would have been nothing to eat, so —

But what were they doing here, in the empty moorlands of Eriador? Were they —

The wolves were almost upon them when Himelon was able to shake off his stupor and alert the men, who — foreseeably — had their backs turned, and were conversing in their _Ínglis_ , paying no mind to the beasts hurtling towards them at a pace they could not outrun. "Droeg!" he cried, wresting them from their mounts just as the first wolf leaped, its coat thin and bedraggled with malnutrition. Béti threw himself onto the ground. It missed.

Himelon bent his bow at the third and fourth, who had lagged behind. One arrow was let loose — and missed. The second arrow whistled through one of the wolves' ears, and tore it off. A minor injury — and an injury that set it bounding towards him, teeth bared. Perhaps Glindir, his father, would have been able to slay a creature moving at this pace, but not Himelon. Emptying his mind of nothing but rash, thoughtless bravery, he sprinted at the wolf, and, with his hunting knife, managed to slice its belly open. Its teeth grabbed at the sleeve of his tunic, desperate for a taste of flesh.

But the wolf's bite was weak, for its bowels were spilling from it, trailing on the ground. It collapsed with a whimper, dying, but not dead. Himelon turned his attention to the fourth wolf, which Béti was cutting at with his dagger. The attempts at injury were ineffectual; the beast snarled, and snapped at the man's legs, nearly sinking its teeth into his ankle. A swiftly loosed arrow felled that one, neatly impaled in the throat. _Adar would have been proud of that shot_ , reflected Himelon ruefully.

A yell of pain interrupted the ellon's thoughts. It cut through the air, raw. He turned in time to see Thonel's thigh grasped in the jaws of one of the remaining beasts, the other padding towards them at the smell of blood. His head spun. He found himself helpless, his feet dragged down, down into the ground, and he would only watch as the young adan — so _young_ — was mauled, with another ravenous attacker eagerly awaiting its share in the meal. For one long, terrible moment, Himelon thought that his companion — his _friend_ , he realised, reeling — would be slain.

And yet, inexplicably, Thonel's arm reached for the strange object hanging from his neck. His shaking arm took it and pointed it at the creature almost hanging from his leg — a second's pause — and then a sound echoed across the moor and rung in Himelon's ears — Thonel's hand jerked back — and the wolf went slack, dead. Its companion, sensing something awful in the previously innocuous object in the man's hand, took to the north again, crazed with fear.

Finally, Himelon was able to move. He stumbled over, panting with the sudden exertion of the fight, to find Thonel's face drained of all colour. A violently shaking hand put his weapon back into the leather holder around his neck. Suddenly, the man grabbed Himelon's arm, his eyes fighting against their urge to roll back into his head. The ellon steadied Thonel afore he could swoon away, collapsing onto the leg which was bleeding freely now, rivulets of red soaking his strange breeches and trickling to the ground. The wolf had ripped the cloth open. "Onto your horse, now," he said, fuzzily aware of the fact that his voice was hard and had taken on an unusually commanding tone. "Béti — help me carry him up. He will swoon if he endures any more pain —"

Once safely mounted again, they set off at a gallop southwest, far, far from the north. This was no race, now, save a race from the wolves that might have mauled Thonel to death. " _Noro lim_ ," murmured Himelon, in the way he had been taught. "Run swiftly."

They galloped, each horse at as fast a speed as they could muster, even as the sweat foamed from them, until Himelon noticed that Thonel was beginning to slip off his seat. They slowed to a stop, and Béti managed to catch the young man ere he collapsed upon the ground, insensate from the pain and loss of blood. Himelon put the horses to graze. Together, the conscious members of the small band peeled the ripped, blood-soaked cloth from Thonel's thigh and doused the wound with the remaining water in one of the skins they had brought.

All the while, the man groaned, for even in the swoon, he felt the effect of the wolf's maw. Beads of sweat formed on the face that was now a pale grey, and his eyes were half-closed.

"We ought to bind him tightly, if we have anything to bind him with."

"Did we bring bandages?"

"I doubt it; I was a numbskull not to. He may have my shirt." Himelon proceeded to shuck his tunic and the aforementioned article of clothing, and, the skin of his bare chest rising into gooseflesh, tore the linen into strips with an unpractised hand.

It was madness — sheer madness — the fact that he ought to inspect the man's wound and make judgment of it. He was no student of the arts physic, let alone a healer with a decent measure of skill. Yet Béti, as the Edain often did, saw him as Elven-wise, and left the healing in his hands. "I am not Elrond Halfelven," he warned his companion. "I have no knowledge of healing herbs. I know not more than the art of tying a bandage. You will not see miraculous results from me."

And frankly, the ellon quivered inside at the thought of managing such an injury. He could see the puncture marks from each of the wolf's canines, and the chunk of flesh that had been torn away as the attacker had fallen down dead; this would have been a challenge for one under Osgar's tutelage, let alone a blacksmith like Himelon.

Blood continued to ooze its way out of the puncture marks, and the exposed flesh sorely needed stitching. That, he knew. Yet he had no needle, and no thread, and could much less sew together raw flesh than he could darn hose, so that was hopeless.

How he managed to get the wound clean and bandaged he never knew. Béti's help had to be enlisted in order to lift the man's leg, in order to wind the thigh with linen. The result was satisfactory, and appeared as though someone with some measure of a physician's skill had dealt with it. Himelon could sit back upon his heels, pull on his tunic, and breathe a sigh of relief. Thonel had awoken from his fainting fit, and lay pale and sick, jaw clenched to suppress whimpers of pain.

"I suppose he ought not to move, and to drink much water, to replenish the blood in him."

"I shall fetch another skin for him."

So began the small ordeal of making the young man drink. The first few sips went down easily, but then he blanched, and claimed nausea. Then Himelon explained the need for much water, in order to replenish the blood, and Thonel forced down another five sips, before pushing the skin away again. They did not attempt anything after that.

Leaving Thonel to sleep, Béti and Himelon set about building a fire and setting up camp. Heather made decent dry fuel, for, being left untended, it was wont to grow woody stems which burned faster than wood, but slower than dry grass. In ten minutes, Béti had a sizeable blaze going that would last them for a few hours yet. The man's use of flint and steel had improved lately, and he caught a spark the first time more often than not.

The scent of heather, mildly distorted by burning, rose up Himelon's nostrils as he sat himself cross-legged before the fire. Béti did likewise. For a while, they were silent, for there was nothing to say — both were reeling yet from the sudden attack, and words could not find their way to their mouths.

"Forgive me." It slipped out before Himelon could check himself.

"For what?"

"I could have warned you before. We could have gotten away."

"They were running too fast, and there was no cover. I do not think you were at fault."

"Yet I could have warned you, and we could have gotten away. Forgive me. I fear I have cost you your friend."

"Nonsense!" Béti shifted uneasily. "He is young; he will heal yet."

"The wound needed stitches."

"If I am correct, you cannot sew."

"I ought to have brought a needle and thread, at least. I was such a fool," spat Himelon bitterly. "A complete and utter fool."

Béti's response was to rummage in his pack and produce a handful of nuts. "Let us have our midday meal. You will be less given to self-flagellation with food in your stomach."

" _Self-flagellation_. You speak my tongue well, Béti, to be able to accuse me of such a thing." But he took the handful of nuts anyway, and began to shell them one by one. Popping one of them into his mouth, he found the hazelnut stale and almost flavourless. Swallowing was almost painful. To add insult to injury, the fire was slowly burning out, and Himelon found that there was little water left in the skins they had brought from Imladris.

"I am sorry, Béti. You must have thought I knew what I was doing."

"Why do you apologise so?"

"I feel you owe an apology. You," Himelon said, twisting around to see if Thonel had awoken, "and Thonel. Both of you. I came along in a fit of hubris, believing I had something to offer. Some superior knowledge to impart. Of the lands around — of travelling in the wild — yes, of travelling, because my father so frequently joined the sons of Elrond and the Dúnedain in their endeavours. You must have thought I was Elven-wise, because I was an Elf; you must have trusted me because I have twice as many years as you —"

"Nonsense. I was glad to have you along for comradeship."

"Of course you were — but did you not expect me to _know_ something?"

"A little, I must admit. I do not fault you for today, however. None of us foresaw the attack."

Himelon finished his nuts, little mollified by Béti's empty words. There was something gnawing at him that told him there was something wrong. Something he ought to have done better. He remembered his father, no doubt in the Wild again, slaying orcs and other foul creatures almost effortlessly. To him, they were no doubt a hindrance rather than something to dread. And here — hampered by _wolves_ — Himelon felt as though he were a child again, brought back to earth after attempting something clearly beyond his ken.

"Are you thinking, Himelon?"

"Yes, Béti. Your words do little to comfort me."

"Then it is my turn to apologise." The man laughed gently. "I was never gifted with the ability to comfort others."

"We ought to do something of use, to while away the time, then. Will you search for water? There is little left."

"Certainly." Béti got to his feet, collected the water-skins, shouldered all three and left, whistling, to find a source of fresh water. Scanning the highlands with his keen eyes, Himelon could not see much in the way of streams or ponds.

His breath caught in his chest with a chill. If they found no water — if there was nothing — Glindir had told him that one could only survive without water for a week, at most. And that was for the Edhellim. Men were less hardy. Yet Béti would doubtlessly find _some_ water, Himelon reassured himself, moving further from the fire to sit by Thonel. He would try and convince the young man to eat, Béti would return with water, and they would be able to move on within three days.

"Water. Please." Thonel had awoken, and was now thirsty. Little surprise, for he had lost much blood. The ellon upbraided himself for such neglect of his needs, remembering that Béti had gone with the waterskins.

Himelon assumed his brightest demeanour. "There is no water at present; Béti will return with it shortly. You must eat, however."

"My mouth is — dry. No eating." His voice was husky and grating, and his lips were cracked. Oh, _when_ would Béti come back?

"Eating will help you regain your strength."

"I will eat — when there is water." Thonel closed his eyes and breathed deeply into his nostrils. A hard knot of muscle appeared in his jaw: he was biting back a whine of pain.

"There will be water soon." It seemed as though hours were passing while Béti was gone. Perhaps the man had gotten lost on his way. Perhaps another band of wolves had appeared and mauled him to death. And he had not watched to see where the man was headed. Himelon buried his head in his hands, revelling in the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears, which drowned out Thonel's ill-disguised groans. Béti would never come back. And it was only he and Thonel, waiting for the latter to die.

Himelon's morose reflections were interrupted by the sound of a hunting-call behind him. To his relief, he spied a figure of small stature wandering about, yelling the awful refrain. "I am here!" he cried, waving his arms in a most undignified manner. "Did you find water?"

The figure jogged towards the camp, three water-skins in hand. "There was a rill over to the south. The water was slow-moving, but it was clean."

"Good! I suppose we ought to clean Thonel's wound a little."

First, however, Thonel was given as much as he wished to drink. Having coerced him to choke down a few hazelnuts, with plenty of insistence about recovering his strength, Himelon set to untying the blood-choked strips of linen about Thonel's thigh. Thankfully, most of the blood was dry, and the wound oozed less. Béti, looking on, pointed out a few red lines emanating from the puncture marks (which had stopped bleeding), which Himelon dismissed. He was sure that most puncture wounds appeared so; the wolf's canines had not been kind.

After all — Himelon knew nothing. He was no healer.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Osgar - Amputator

droeg - wolves

I have quite surprised myself with this deluge of words. Well, folks, have another chapter early! Merry (late) Christmas!

Cheero,  
 **A.B.C.**


	26. Brevity

**WARNING:** Again, some unsavoury details. If squeamish, take care and read near toilet if necessary. Reading after eating not recommended.

* * *

It had been three days. Three days of shoddy doctoring. Three days of waiting. Davies shook his head, and wondered why he had hoped Ernest would heal so quickly.

The lad was fevered, now. Davies' suspicion of the red lines on Ernest's leg had been confirmed when, upon awakening the next morning, he had been met with complaints of fatigue and unabating pain in the leg. He had unwrapped the bandages, and, to the sinking of his stomach, found that the entire area around the puncture wounds was inflamed. He had seen this before, and he knew that Imladris was more than a few days' ride away. The wound was infected.

The next day, Ernest's fever had climbed higher and higher, and Davies and Himelon had been powerless; none of them had any knowledge of herbs beneficial to such a condition, and none of them knew how to alleviate it.

It must have been germs on the wolf's teeth, he had decided, or something of that sort. Even if he knew what had caused the infection, Davies could not have cured it. He would not think of it. He would not even dare to fall into that funk and admit for even a single moment that Ernest would —

No. He smoothed the young man's hair back from his forehead and tilted his head back, Himelon pouring a dram of water into his open mouth. Ernest was now barely conscious, stuck in a muddy, feverish delirium, and could not be incited to drink any other way. The two men would often stare at one another, helpless, as he choked and rejected most of the liquid that spilled down his chin in a waterfall, though they knew it worked towards his own good. It was almost as though they were torturing him.

"Ernest. Ernest. Can you hear me?" Davies dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve, patting the insensate man's cheek. "Do you understand me? Lieutenant Thornhill, sir. Can you hear me? Thonel — Ernest — sir —"

Ernest moaned, eyelashes fluttering, but did not give any other sign. The young man had begun to live half-dreaming, crying out names of people that were not there. Now, as Davies held his hand to gauge how hot he was, the back of his hand on Ernest's brow, he sighed, and, with a queer catch in his voice, mumbled, "O, mother — you needn't worry about me —"

"Himelon —"

"Yes, Béti? Does he need more water?"

"Thonel is seeing — _people_ — again."

"Alas, is his fever so high? I ought to bring more water nevertheless. Here —" Himelon passed him the skin, in which Davies promptly soaked a rag and bathed Ernest's face. His cheeks were uncomfortably flushed, the rest of him paler than he had been after three sleepless nights in a row. "Béti, let me nurse him awhile. You look harried."

"I am not. You took the watch last night; lie down and rest awhile."

"You forget that we of the _edhellen_ are able to rest our minds as we walk. Let me, Béti."

A small, tight string inside Davies snapped, and he felt his face burn. "I understand him better than you ever will. I speak his mothertongue. It is better for him."

"Oh, Béti." Himelon's face crumpled for a moment, and he leaned the side of his head into his hand. "You are weary of this. Here, you take the water-skin and fill it again — you know the way to the stream, and I do not."

"Thonel needs me here."

"He does not know who sits by his side. Please." With an imploring look, Himelon pressed the bottle of leather into Davies' hands, pushing him imperceptibly down the hill. "Thank you."

The trek to the stream was a confusing one, but one that had been made so often those past three days that Davies declared could have walked it in his sleep. There were no twists and turns, but there was also no path, and the featureless moor meant that every hill passed by was almost the same as the last. On the second day after the attack by the wolves, Davies had cut an impromptu path into the heather with his dagger — blunting the weapon quite severely — which helped him to remember the direction of the stream.

He was still not immune to the feeling of wild lonesomeness that pervaded him whenever he walked that path, the patches of heather extending almost forever to his right, to his left, before and after him; the sky that arched in its unchanging grey above him; and the thick silence which was unbroken save for his quiet breathing and the dull thump of his footsteps. It was then when Davies was inclined to think. And Davies did not want to think at all at this point. For if he thought, then he would sink into an illicit despair that it was inefficient to feel at this moment.

So here he was, kneeling by the rill on mud that stained the knees of his hose, letting the current flow into the brown waterskin, the leather strap nearly carried away by the water that flowed faster than its size seemed to allow. _Perhaps we ought to bathe_ , thought Davies. _But we can't leave him alone. And I can't defend myself naked_. Corking the bottle, he made his way back, whistling to fill the silence. It was 'Nellie Dean'; the man could not muster up anything remotely cheerful at this moment in time.

Slowly, it began to rain, beginning as the odd droplet on Davies' head. The drizzle swiftly evolved into something resembling a mild downpour, until he was obliged to pull up the hood of his cloak. If Davies were to be honest, the storm had been too long in the coming, for the weather had been inordinately kind to them as of late.

He found Himelon sitting with his knees drawn up and hugged in his arms, his head resting upon them in an uncharacteristically childish pose. He was singing softly to himself a song which Davies did not know. His silver hair had been let loose, and fanned about his head, tangled, damp and disorderly; the ellon did not notice Davies as he approached. "I — I filled the water-skin, Himelon," murmured the man, unwilling to disturb what seemed to him a somehow private moment. Although he had not been under any sort of strict military protocol for a good many months now, times such as this continued to pervade him with discomfiture.

Himelon's head jerked up, and when he spoke, his voice was similarly soft. "Have you? Thank you, Béti. Yes, you may sit with Thonel now. I was just thinking —"

"What were you thinking?"

"I have forgotten now," sighed Himelon, and arranged himself into a more dignified position. "They were melancholy thoughts. I doubt you would have wanted to hear them — you are plagued with similar reflections yourself."

"How did you guess." Davies laughed humourlessly.

"I know."

Ernest's voice came thin into the air, keening in some sort of discomfort. Davies shot to his side, lifting up his head and attempting to pour a few drops of water down his throat. At least those drops slid down as easily as they could possibly slide — perhaps, if he took enough water, he would be able to relieve himself. Davies noted, with a grimace, that he hadn't urinated, or expressed the urge to, since the night before. It must have been how little water he had taken.

For good measure, he poured another splash down Ernest's throat. This he coughed up, closing his eyes and breathing fast, shallow breaths in between each hacking convulsion. "No — no more water," he managed, before plunging back into confusion.

"He is very ill, Himelon."

"You think I do not know? While you were gone, he was having chills. It is not so cold, is it, Béti?"

"Yes — but — chills often accompany fever — perhaps he is only —"

"We must change his bandages. They are becoming putrid." Himelon began to unknot the swathes of linen around Ernest's thigh, wet through with blood-streaked pus. The leg was grossly swollen, red and inflamed, the wounds knitting but not fully healed. The puncture wounds leaked a semi-clear liquid, which gave off a sickly sweet odour that choked Davies' throat — he saw that Himelon's face blanched almost pale green, and the ellon swallowed visibly against rising gorge. "I beg you — take these —" he shook the bandages "— to the stream and wash them. Thoroughly."

Davies could not help but agree. He made another trip to the stream, the rain soaking through his hood and his hose, dampening his cloak, and threatening to wet the putrid bandages which he had kept sequestered under his cloak to shield them from such a danger. The smell of them would infuse the wool of his tunic, staying there until there was a possibility of washing it.

Thankfully, the bandages remained dry — as dry as they could be, soaked in pus and blood — and Davies knelt down at the water once again to strip them of their cruor. It proved remarkably stubborn, as did the smell; he gagged once or twice, hoping that his hands were not cut. The bandages were a sorry, frayed tangle of linen once he was finished with them: grayish strings that, once wrung dry, seemed as though they were no longer fit for their occupation. What would Davies have given for the solid pack of field dressing sewn into his old Army tunic!

He did not return immediately this time. _Let the rain drown me_ , he thought in a fit of petulance. _I'm done with this bloody affair._ Allowing himself a moment of self-indulgence, he sat with his head in his hands, hearing nothing but the rain and the pounding of his heart and his breathing, willing himself away from what seemed impossible to dig himself out of. The child in him almost wanted to weep: Ernest was dying, it was raining — he and Himelon were alone in this wilderness, beyond help —

But Davies was not a child, and he raised his head — wearily — got to his feet, and wound his way back, clutching the dripping bandages in his right hand. His hood was already more than damp, his beard already catching the water dripping from its rim. Clearly, the rain would not be stopping for a while. Just like England. Just like France. _Damn it all, why_?

Himelon barely greeted him upon return. The ellon seemed too busy fussing over Ernest to even notice Davies, standing there with his sad, limp handful of linen. "Ai Himelon! I am here —"

"Give me the bandages."

"I fear they will not be of much use anymore."

"It matters not. I cannot have his — his _foulness_ dripping onto the grass."

"Foulness?"

"Yes, Béti, it is foul! The wound drips with it; redness has spread up his leg — and I —" He stopped, and sighed. "I am being unjust. Forgive me."

"I understand. It is hard to care for a wound when you know nothing of it."

Himelon wound the bandages about Ernest's thigh, taking great care not to touch even a particle of his skin with his hands. In response, the young man's eyes fluttered open, and he became briefly aware. "B — Bertie —?" Ernest coughed, licked his lips, and tried again. His voice was terribly hoarse. "Where — where —" a painful swallow "Where am I?"

"I don't know myself."

"And — what's wrong — with —" The effort was too much, and Ernest fainted — or fell back asleep.

Davies heaved a sigh, and looked about him. "There's life left in him yet, Himelon. For that I am glad. Perhaps — perhaps he may even heal."

"That I hope too, Béti."

"But he will not heal. I know that. I have seen many men in the same predicament die, and die swiftly at that."

"No, no. Do not say it. He will heal, Béti — against all odds."

"You do not fool me with your —" Davies, unable to express it, turned to English. "— with your _bloody optimism_."

Now, it was Himelon's turn to sigh. "It expends my strength to hope such a thing. Mayhap Glorfindel or Demmedir would be able to muster cheer in my stead."

"Who was Demmedir again?"

"My master — do you not recall? He tasked me always with the making of daggers and hunting-knives, trusting me not to begin forging swords, or to try my hand at finer metalwork. Ever cheerful, but little faith in me. Gracious, that seems a time ago! It is strange, is it not? how times like this appear so far removed from times of merry-making and gaiety!"

"You were wont to grumble to me about Demmedir."

"Was I?"

"Yes. It grew quite insufferable at times, I must say."

"I thought I knew more than I did. I was impatient. Just as I was, coming here with you. I am not good enough, Béti, forgive me — you ought to have asked another to accompany you, somebody more skilled than I — more humble than I —" Himelon stared at his hands, twisting them and fiddling with his nails. "I do not deserve you. You have been too good to me, Béti."

"Stop this nonsense at once. I do not want you believing this."

"Can you not see, how _useless_ I am? I have served no purpose — none at all — and have not since we departed. I had no reason for this journey, not as you and Thonel have — what am I doing here? Why do you let me stay? I'm — I'm — I —"

"What you are saying is nonsense." Davies averted his eyes, for Himelon's voice had climbed an octave throughout the self-admonishment, and he was quite sure that the ellon had burst into tears. "You ought not to say this. You are tired, and Thonel's illness upsets you. Your mind is telling you tales."

"I am sorry. It — it was selfish of me. Why do you not tell me to leave?"

"I shall in a moment, if you do not stop your sniveling." He regretted the words as soon as they escaped his mouth. The sharp reprimand had, however, pulled Himelon back into good sense: he raised his head, and — against all odds — smiled. Davies noted with grim satisfaction that the ellon's face was wet.

"Thank you." Himelon exhaled heavily and made to get up, though Davies did not know why — Ernest was sleeping, and there was nothing left to do. He supposed that it was time for a meal. Yet he did not want one: though he felt as if his stomach had eaten a hole in his insides (he hadn't eaten in a long while), and though the world had begun to fade out a little every time he raised his head, Davies found that his appetite had completely disappeared. But why this was he couldn't fathom; had he not endured much worse than this in terms of seeing others' injury?

However, when Davies got up also, black spots popped before his eyes and the man was obliged to sit down again, his heart pounding. It was only then when pragmatism ruled, and he crawled over to a pack to ingest a handful of nuts. The ensuing nausea would die down after a while.

"Béti." Davies felt himself being shaken from the doze he had unwittingly fallen into. _Shame on me, sleeping on the job like that_.

"Yes?"

"Thonel is worse."

"What?" Struggling to his feet, Davies came over to Himelon's perch by Ernest's prone form. True to the ellon's statement, the young man was indeed worse off: he was breathing very fast — struggling for breath — and Davies noted with dismay that the leg was blackening. Ernest was no longer conscious — no longer crying out — and he lay limp, face shiny with sweat. "Himelon. Is there anything else we can do."

"I hate to say no."

A cold chill froze Davies as he knelt. "Then there is nothing. Nothing at all."

"We must wait then, until he finally —"

"I cannot say it." Davies turned away with a ferocity that surprised himself, eyes burning. "Oh, _God_."

But evening came instead of tears, and what was left of the old sergeant in him kept him upright, wiping Ernest's brow and watching him as he failed. Stubbornly, the two of them continued to minister to the unconscious man — though he seemed more of a boy, in this state — despite knowing that none of it was any use. It became too much for Davies after a while, and, weary, he trudged to the stream and stared with heavy head at the greenish water.

He did not know how long he sat there, the sun setting and leaving things cool and grey. The sudden drop in temperature made him shiver. At that moment, the man felt as though he could have sat there for years; he was too tired to get up, and too agitated to sleep. A less perturbed state would have given rise to self-chastisement — after all, he _was_ leaving Himelon to manage Ernest alone. Nevertheless, no sensible reason would coerce him from his seat by the water: as much as he hated to admit it, all Davies wanted to do was to forget.

And he did — almost.

The man, bowed and silent, felt the weight of a hand upon his shoulder. Instinct caused him to startle, and he threw it off, making to crawl across the stream, or hide in the gorse. But the hand stopped him, grasping his and squeezing it, forcing Davies to look up. It was Himelon. A thought flashed through him, quickly arrested by reason though it was. _Ernest's—_

Of course. He had been gone for a long, long while. Himelon would have come to look for him — to make sure he was safe —

After all, it would not do to have _two_ men down.

"You must come back now," said the ellon's voice, its musicality comforting Davies, its sorrow bringing a dread that was all too suddenly familiar.

"Forgive me. For my weakness. I ought not to have —"

"Did you not lecture me on self-flagellation just a few hours prior?" Himelon's voice had no trace of amusement within it.

"Yes. Yes, I did. I am sorry. Is there any change —?"

"—in Thonel?"

Davies nodded. The dread continued to loom until the words would not have been able to find their way to his mouth in English, let alone in Edhellen.

"That — that is why I came —" He swallowed audibly, and stifled a jerking breath. "At last. He —"

"You cannot say it, can you?" The question came sharply, like an accusation. Davies clamped his mouth shut and gave himself an inward slap.

"No, I cannot. But we may move on, at last. We — are no longer hampered —"

"I will come back with you."

"It is so selfish — I am ashamed of myself —"

"It is the truth." He exhaled at last, and wondered why he did not cry. "Do we have the tools necessary to bury him?"

"I doubt it. I am sure our knives will manage; the ground is yet soft with rain."

"Good. Good, good." _Why do we speak so carelessly about burying_ Ernest _?_

It was properly night now, and the clouds had cleared for a starry night. Each little pinpoint of light twinkled in its proper place so decorously that Davies almost wished that the sky would crumble, destroying the earth and everything in it. _Have some bloody respect. Ernest's—_

As they grew nearer to the hill, Davies realised that he would want some privacy. Who knew what he would do when he saw the body? Friend though Himelon was, he did not want the man to witness some embarrassing outburst, or anything like that. He walked faster, wrapping his cloak about him as tightly as it would go. The first time he was going to see it? He would do it alone. Alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Himelon noticed as Béti sped up, and made no move to follow. Yes, he would see Thonel alone.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Yes, it's been a long while. Sorry. Unfortunately, life's been getting very busy. So busy, in fact, that _It's a Long, Long Way_ will be henceforth on hiatus until the summer, once all the academic drudgery is done and over with. So, until next time —

Cheero.

 **A.B.C.**


	27. The Show Must Go On

_What a mercy the ground was soaked tonight,_ thought Davies, sitting back upon his heels and massaging his shoulders. The morning had dawned tenuously bright, small clouds scudding across the streaked sky. He and Himelon had spent a sleepless night digging a crude hole in the ground, so that Davies could give Ernest a Christian burial. Unfortunately, the only materials they had which were remotely suitable for grave-digging were their daggers; as such, the work had been arduous. After carving chunks of grass out of the hill upon which they had set up camp, the men were forced to scrabble the layers of soil and mud away with their hands, until something resembling a respectable grave had emerged.

Looking up, Davies could see that even Himelon had broken a sweat. The ellon leant back on his elbows in a shockingly soldierly pose, face flushed and shiny. It had been relentless work. Now, however, the world was calm; a breeze stood the hairs of his arms on end as it lifted the perspiration from his body. Somewhere in the distance screeched a buzzard. That noise seemed to wake them up, for Himelon sat up and made to rise, and Davies was acutely aware of the fact that his ankles were numb.

"Do you wish to sleep, Béti?" The sound of Himelon's voice tilted him back into disorientation: he had not heard it since yesterday evening.

"No."

"You have not slept for two days. Men do not take such deprivations as easily as we do."

"I can manage, thank you," snapped Davies.

Himelon made a doubtful grunt and left the man by his friend's grave. Davies groaned. The mound of earth before him was messy and raw about the edges, and there was not a tree to speak of within his line of sight. Taking his dagger, he etched a large cross into the damp soil. There was no point in attempting an epitaph. _Here lies Ernest Thornhill. Died nobly by hungry wolf and infection._

Once the ellon returned, Davies was up, all pretence of business. By the time the sadly neglected horses had been fed and draped with the saddlebags, the numbness from his ankles had dissipated — or rather, travelled to his head, for everything seemed to have muted itself slightly. "Are we ready?" he heard himself ask, as though he were somehow separated from himself.

Himelon responded by handing him one of the horses. Slowly, the two men circled their way down from the hill, each step taking them further from that shameful grave. Each step taking them further from Ernest. By the time the descent was complete, the sun was high enough for its pathetic rays to give some semblance of warmth, and Davies had forgotten about the previous night. A comfortable sort of dullness had added to the numbness, and the man decided he would get along very well for the rest of the journey.

He suggested they mount their horses, and they did, ready to take off across the moorland. With a belated start of surprise, Davies realised that his hands were still encrusted in dirt, his nails black and foul with it. It would not matter. He had been dirtier than this. He turned to his companion, aware that he had not moved. Instead, the ellon sat still upon the saddle, hands steepled so that his fingers pressed upon the inner corners of his eyes. "Himelon?"

"Let me grieve awhile." Deep furrows carved between his brows.

Davies laughed sourly. "Grieve when we stop for the midday meal."

Tears had begun to flow over his fingers. "We cannot go; I shall not to be able to see!"

The absurdity of the excuse elicited another harsh laugh from Davies' breast, and suddenly, he wanted nothing but to be away from here. Turning away from his companion, he urged his mount into a westward canter, refusing to care if he were to fall off. His ridiculous fear of horses was no obstacle: he would leave the grief — leave Himelon — leave Ernest —

"Come back!"

 _No_ , Davies wanted to say, in a fit of childish pique. _I'm not coming back, you bloody —_

The insult refused to finish itself. Mollified by the returning numbness, the man slowed to a trot and allowed Himelon to catch him up. "Can you see now," he muttered, as soon as the ellon had pulled up beside him.

"Well enough," he replied. "Forgive me for holding you back."

Davies grunted. "No matter."

There was silence for a while. Nothing but the thin air of early spring, and the horses.

"You behave oddly, Béti." Himelon spoke slowly, as though he were picking his words with delicacy. "I fear for you."

"Why would you fear for _me_?"

"Usually, you are friendly and cheerful — and now, you are taciturn."

"I am what?"

"You do not speak much to me."

"Thonel was dear to me. You should expect as much. Most men do not grieve by weeping like girls, where I hail from."

Himelon raised his eyebrows. "Be civil, Béti. You are not the only one who grieves."

"But you barely knew him —!"

"I knew him enough to truly feel the loss when he — he — died —"

"Do not say that word to me!" Davies' voice had doubled in volume: he was using his sergeant's voice, and he was glad of it. His face was flushing; his back was ramrod-straight, and he felt as though he could fly out of the saddle. Swiftly, he collapsed and egged his horse to a full gallop, blood fairly roaring in his ears. He had to get away.

Midday, and the exhaustion that had long hovered at the back of Davies' mind threatened to engulf it. He was no longer hungry — a blessing, as rations were already uncomfortably scarce. He watched as Himelon took out his flute, attempted a few faltering notes, before burying his head in his hands. Snatches of old music-hall songs flitted through the man's mind, mixing with the wind and the moor-grass and the champing of the horses. The songs did nothing to improve his already precarious mood. Eventually, against his will, Davies fell into a deep sleep.

At first, there were no dreams. Then, he was aware of a dark room — a little chilly — and a figure against the window, half-hidden by a curtain. He walked closer, half-stupid, and it was bent over a book, crying quietly. Reaching out for no reason, he stepped again, and the figure turned to him. The voice was Ernest's — then Himelon's — it was Himelon's face — then there was nothing more.

Davies woke to a milder light: it was overcast, and the sun was setting. He did not know how long he had slept. The dull numbness had returned yet again, but it was less pleasant than before, being tinged with the fatigue that should have disappeared with sleep. With a ponderous blink, Davies realised he had half-forgotten the time of year. _What am I doing here_. Rising to sit — he was still lying on his back — he found Himelon staring at him, smiling a little. "I was loth to wake you," he said. "Are you hungry?"

"No." Davies' stomach contracted painfully, and a wave of nausea followed. He had not eaten in at least a day. "Perhaps."

"We ought to move westwards and find the sea. There, you may find a mariner to direct you to this _Ínglend_ you wish to find."

"I did not wish to find it." Davies paused. "Thonel did."

"It is your homeland too, is it not?"

"Yes, but —"

"Come, Béti. We will go on." Himelon stuck out his hand, and Davies took it gratefully, pulling himself up to stand. Stubbornly ignoring his nausea, the man stuffed three nuts into his mouth, chewed, and choked them down; if it made him sick, there was nobody else to grouse about the smell. He managed to keep the meagre portion down, however, and took another handful.

* * *

The evening had been suffused with silence. Unhampered by any feelings contrary to a wish to get on, they had taken the horses at a canter for as long as was possible without exhausting the beasts. The two travel-companions did not trouble to speak to one another; each was consumed in thought, the wind, and the hoof-beats. Night fell slowly in these open lands, even so close to winter. When the time came for the mounts to slow, Davies murmured the command reluctantly — that flying gait, once regarded with a horror of falling off in an inglorious finale to his equestrian career, now rejuvenated his senses and staved off the dull blanket of tiredness which remained in spite of his nap.

At a walk, the going was unbearably slow. Once, Davies caught himself humming 'Nellie Dean', in the wandering, sentimental style that Ernest used to love. He had hardly noticed it then. Now, however, his heart gave a funny leap, and he stopped mid-note. Unable to bear the thick silence which remained, Davies turned to Himelon and spoke.

"Where are we?"

"I believe —" Himelon stretched himself up (a difficult task, as he had no stirrups) and glanced into the distance. "— those are the North Downs, there, many leagues away."

Davies gazed obligingly, but found nothing of note. "I see nothing."

"I do. I am an Elf; I see far."

"I had not noticed." The man's mouth twisted ironically.

"We are moving northwards. We must reorient ourselves."

The men turned their horses west, and continued. Soon, the horses were rested sufficiently to allow another canter. Davies breathed a sigh of relief.

A long while later — Davies hazarded a guess of midnight — Himelon pulled his horse back. He did the same. It was not long before he knew why: several steps away from where they remained began a long dip in the ground, and following on, a small group of houses. After what must have been at least four weeks of relentless wandering in the wild, far from any form of company, they had finally stumbled upon civilisation. The men glanced at one another, then at the village. "We could — move on a little longer — and then camp," suggested Himelon timidly.

"No."

"You wish to seek succour in the village, down there?"

"We are low on supplies." Davies' bones ached, and his eyes felt like a pair of lead balls thrust into his eye-sockets, but there was no need to elaborate. Himelon smiled wanly at him and understood. It was true — they were down to the last handful of nuts. In light of the events of the past few days, any thought of hunting had been cast aside.

Making their way down to the collection of houses, Davies learnt a little more about the lay-out of the land. This village was one of few that housed the remnants of the 'west-men', or Dúnedain, in the north. There ought to have been one or even two in Rhudaur, too, but those he and Himelon had somehow managed to avoid. They were hidden, almost secretive places: the west-men were dying out. Indeed, the villages were all women and children, for once the boys were of an age where they could stand a stint in the wild, they were sent out on reconnaissance missions. Often, alone.

"My father is on intimate terms with the sons of Elrond," whispered Himelon. Davies didn't know why he whispered. There was something about the night that made him feel as though he were being heard. "Thus, he has also spoken with many of the Dúnedain. They are dour and stoic, but also noble and proud. They are a race of kings, though they live not like kings."

Davies almost laughed at the oddly dramatic speech. For him, a king had always been the man you fought for. The man you were on parade for, if you were lucky. The man you saluted — the man you presented arms to if he happened to pass by. Apart from an isolated lyric of _God Save the King_ , noble was not something he would call a king.

It was strange to be wandering the streets of a village. From above, it had seemed as though dolls could live there; now, each house was real, even down to the wooden planks nailed above the doorways. The quiet, once commonplace, now made Davies aware of every inhalation and every thump of his feet. Something about there being _other people_ made silence unacceptable. "Which house?" he breathed.

"I do not know," returned Himelon. "They are all asleep."

"Do we —" Davies made a knocking motion with his fist. Funny — he was almost fluent in Edhellen, but still didn't know the word for _knock_.

"Perhaps it would be too loud —"

With a rush of detached bravery, the man stopped at the closest door and rapped it, twice, heedless of Himelon's strangled whisper of _Baw!_. It opened, and Davies came face-to-face with a woman, whose face was obscured by the night. She made a noise of consternation, and asked him something in what he assumed was the Common Speech. "Ú-bedin annúnaid," he replied, eyelids sagging in spite of themselves. _I'm so tired._

"Who are you?" hissed the woman. "Why are you here?"

"I — I — am travelling. My — friend and I — only ask —" Vocabulary swayed in his brain, but none of it was of use. "Himelon —"

The ellon came speedily to his rescue, and Davies stood to the side and attempted to collect his wits. They stood and debated for awhile; the man understood nothing. Speech seemed to have been robbed from him — at least, speech in Edhellen. And who was here to speak English? —

He refused to think of Ernest.

Why was he so tired? After what seemed an eternity, the two were allowed in, on condition they would not wake the children. The blur that followed was reminiscent of Davies' first night in Imladris: somehow, a groggy figure was convinced out of his bed — he collapsed into said bed — and thought he slept. Yet he slept fitfully. Himelon stayed to sit with the woman, telling her of everything that had transpired over the past few days. Through the fog, Davies could hear snatches of their conversation, yet refused to make anything of it.

In spite of his stubborn attempts to sleep, this was what he heard:

"We are travellers… hard road… we are – – to you…" (that was Himelon)

"Why do you travel in these lands?" Then something about the sea, and Davies dozed off for a while.

"Tragedy befell us roughly four days prior —" Davies' stomach sank. Himelon was talking about Ernest. "Our friend and fellow…" He wished he could cover his ears without it waking up. "…mauled by a wolf… north…"

"Did he — _fall_?" The woman's voice dropped to a whisper.

"Alas, he did so, several days later. The wound was infected."

"You could have sent for aid—" Thankfully, the fog encroached upon him again and the conversation was reduced to unintelligible mumbling. After a while, Himelon lay down carefully beside him — thought he was asleep, most likely — gave a small sigh, and began to cry.

Davies would have turned to the wall, but he knew that any movement would bring him out of his comfortable doze. The mattress was too soft after weeks of hard ground. His thoughts were gaining clarity again — would Himelon blubber the entire night away? It was waking him up — but he grew quiet, and next thing Davies knew, it was light, and the other side of the bed was empty. He could have dozed for a while longer, but his limbs had that queer half-heaviness that demanded to be addressed.

Daring to move his arm was a mistake: he was awake. Blinking sluggishly, Davies heaved himself out of the bed, grimacing at the crick in his neck. It seemed that Himelon had tied the horses up some time the previous night, and had gotten up to beg supplies. Judging by the look of mild pity with which their host regarded them, and Himelon's raw voice, it hadn't been too difficult. The boy who had given up his bed the night before entered the doorway, a yoke with two sloshing buckets upon his shoulders. Passing him to the horses outside, Davies gave him a nod of thanks. He nodded back — almost grimly. The hair framing his face was dark and came to his chin in large waves; his mouth curved in a way that was almost familiar, though he couldn't place how.

Riding away, Himelon shot Davies a thin smile. "I feel quite the brigand, playing to our good host's sensibilities."

"Good that you did. We are no longer in danger of starving."

The villagers glanced curiously at the two — wondering, no doubt, what merited the appearance of a silver-haired ellon in their midst. Davies had already decided that his experience in the village had been boring at best, and uncomfortable at worst. And the only way was onwards. For the first time since he had set out, the man was tempted to make his way back to Imladris.

Back up to the crest of the dip they wound, passing fields and hedges and places that reminded Davies vaguely of England in their countrified simplicity. Within the hour, it was back to open lands and loneliness. He felt tired again.

The day passed with agonising slowness, the sun and the shadows seeming to move by millionths of inches each time Davies checked. With each step of the horses, the numb feeling that had chased him since yesterday sunk deeper and deeper, until his emotions had restricted themselves to boredom and the short-lived exhilaration gleaned from going at a canter. The never-changing scenery must have gotten to him, he supposed. At any rate, Himelon _seemed_ to be feeling the same way. Sighing, Davies sped his mount up again and reveled in the sudden wind which stole his breath away.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

And… I'm back! It's been an interesting five months. Regular-ish updates should commence. Thanks for sticking with me!

God bless,

 **A.B.C.**


	28. Beside the (Lake)side

Himelon guessed that roughly three weeks must have passed since their stint in the village. They had come across no other settlements since, and supplies were running thin again. From afar, the ellon could discern the beginnings of a lake; consulting the little-used map, he divined that it was Nenuial. From there, they would travel down to Mithlond. A smile of relief played about Himelon's lips: he guessed that the remnants of Annúminas would still be populated, albeit rather sparsely. "Come," he called to Béti behind him, "there is Lake Nenuial. We grow closer to the sea with every pace of our beasts."

Béti did not reply. By now, the ellon had grown accustomed to his companion's withdrawn attitude — he only spoke to teach him some of his language, which he did more often as the weeks grew by. But should conversation stray past the _scai_ and the _hóses_ , and what order the words of _Íngles_ came in, Béti would cease to talk, and inevitably fall behind. It was clear that the mortal man no longer had interest for life, having seen death. But then, the staid nature of their journey could have simply caused him to languish. Himelon did not know.

They rode on, swiftly changing to a full gallop as Himelon grew more eager to see the lake. He had never seen it in his life — so short in the reckoning of his people — and had almost forgotten the youthful delight he had in discovering the land was still flat hereabouts, though soon it would begin to undulate again. A breeze whipped his hair back from his head.

At the first sight of foam upon his horse's neck, Himelon slowed his mount, signalling for Béti to do so, too. They had made good distance: the horses of Imladris endured long. "Only five miles more, and we shall have a place to rest," he called back to his travelling-companion. "Do not lose faith now!"

If Béti had heard him, he certainly did not show it.

However, the man seemed as eager as he to reach a place of succour: as soon as his horse had rested, he urged the beast back to a canter, and then a gallop, overtaking Himelon in the process. The last five miles seemed to drag the longest of all, as final stretches often do after a long and hard race. It took most of the ellon's self-restraint not to join Béti, though he knew not to exhaust his mount beyond its limits. On and on he walked, until he could bear it no longer, and a whispered word in the horse's ear yielded a smooth gallop that made the wind roar in his ears. He caught up soon enough, and saw that the man's mount was flagging. "Slow her down," he commanded, irritated that he had not warned him of this earlier. "Even Master Elrond's finest thoroughbreds cannot maintain five miles at this pace."

Reluctantly, Béti slowed his mare to a walk. "Thanks to you," grumbled Himelon, "we will have to rest the horses once more before we reach Nenuial. You simply cannot exhaust Rochiril like that."

"Forgive me."

The horses were rested once again, to satisfy Himelon's compulsive fear for his father's beasts. It was fortuitous that the ellon himself had taken the older mare, who was no longer as sprightly as Glindir had liked — hence why she was no longer in his use. This journey had done much to whip her back into some semblance of her fighting condition; though far from exciting, it had certainly been more arduous than a pleasure-ride about the paddock.

The clouds parted to reveal a bright sun as they set off once again. Himelon hazarded a guess of mid-afternoon — two o'clock at most. Though the sun was swiftly masked again, the light did much to cheer him. _At last_ , he thought. _We make progress_. The shore was clearly visible now, and he could even begin to see the waves lap against it. There were shrubs some distance away which would make good shelter. And — at the thought, Himelon's face burst into a smile he had not felt in weeks — he could _bathe_. The grime of a month's travel was beginning to make itself felt at last, and the ellon's scalp itched with it.

And at last, after what had seemed an eternity of open moor, tiny rills and nothing, they reached Lake Nenuial. They approached by the eastern shore, and the mere sight of the gentle waters rippling away towards the hills — the ruins of Annúminas from afar — the peaceful stillness which was somehow different to the static quiet of the Ettenmoors — sprung the tears into Himelon's eyes. He blinked them away, and let himself smile. "Here we are," he breathed to his companion. The sun had come out again, and illuminated the hills with golden light. The Elf, so accustomed to beauty, felt wonder yet.

Béti, however, seemed almost unmoved. He glanced about, expressionless, and mouthed something in his mothertongue. _Bloody hell_. "What do we do."

"First, I must attend to my personal hygiene. Clean myself."

"Yes. I will do that too." That was the most Béti had spoken to him on matters other than the teaching of _Íngles_. Perhaps the sights had affected him too, after all, reflected Himelon, as he stripped off his hose. He gave the feet an experimental sniff, and recoiled. There was nobody there — perhaps he could launder his hose and body linen, too. Pulling off his braies, he tested the water.

Himelon could not remember the last time he washed himself, and though the water which lapped at his toes was chilly, it was with gladness that he stepped into the lake to bathe. Without soap, it was difficult to remove all of the grime, but he managed nonetheless to scrape and sluice off a respectable amount of dirt. After a quick preparatory breath, he sunk his head into the clear waters and began to wash his hair. He had not noticed how matted the silver strands had become over the weeks, and combing out the thick mass of hair, grease, and other unsavoury substances was made no less painful with the aid of water.

"You brought a comb, but you did not bring soap," Béti pointed out, as Himelon resurfaced for the third time, gasping. The man's hair had almost reached his shoulders in the time they had gone away, and his beard was thick and full. Between both shocks of almost-black hair, the ellon could only see his eyes, his nose, and the apex of his cheekbones. Personally, he found it almost homely — though he did not tell Béti so. "I am well aware."

"If you had cut your hair short before the journey, you would have avoided this problem."

"My folk do not cut their hair, save under great necessity." Himelon winced as he tugged a particularly large snarl loose. "I see it is not the case with yours."

Béti did not reply, and the rest of the bath was completed in silence.

Weary of travel, and desirous of a little self-indulgence, Himelon stretched himself out on his cloak so that the gradually strengthening spring sun would dry him. After a while, he managed to feel quite warm, and — for the first time in a while — relaxed. The air by the lake was fresh and cool, and kept his senses alive after his invigorating dip in the lake. Smiling, the ellon closed his eyes. Nenuial was a worthy waystation.

Re-opening his eyes to slits, Himelon could see that Béti had placed himself a small way away from him, no doubt attempting to sun himself also. Overhead, birds wheeled about, creeling mournfully to one another; the waves made imperceptible rushing noises as they lapped up onto the shore. Himelon wished that the silence would never break — somehow, it was almost sacred. Eventually, he began to rest his mind, losing all but a vague perception of the world about him, before slipping into a deep sleep: he had not slept truly since the attack of the wolves. Now, his body hungered for a rest his kind craved but seldom, and he lost all consciousness. He did not know how long he slept.

It was a breeze that awoke him. Himelon's first instinct was to reach for his dagger, which he normally had bound at his side. When all he felt was cool skin and his hip-bone, a cold vice of fear began to squeeze at his heart. Recollection of the day's happenings came quickly, however, and with a renewed sense of purpose, he sat up and rooted about his pack for a spare set of body-linen. Having forgotten bandages, healing salves, and soap, Himelon was mildly relieved to find a musty-smelling, but clean, pair of braies balled into a corner of the leather bag.

Walking to the lake's edge, a pile of clothing in hand, the ellon was surprised to hear a call from Béti. "Where are you going?"

"I am washing my linen," he called back.

"I will join you."

Himelon gave in to another smile tugging at his lips: so, Béti was finally eager for some society. Perhaps the man was finally healing. The men worked shoulder to shoulder, scrubbing at their underclothes in companionable silence and making the best of the lack of soap.

Companionable silence — another experience which he had learned to tolerate, if not enjoy. Responsibility had removed the need for mindless chatter.

Squatting back on his heels, the ellon threw a glance across the lake. "How long do you wish to stay before we move on, Béti?"

"Hm?"

"How long do you wish to stay? Our best course after Nenuial would be to travel about the southern shore, cross the Emyn Uial, and reach the White Downs past Michel Delving, and after that —"

"I don't wish to go on."

Himelon's head numbed, and his heart began to hammer. "What do you mean?"

"I want to go back to Imladris. I see no reason to carry on."

"Do you not want to find your homeland?" Himelon knew he had asked this before, but he could not fathom Béti's apathy.

"Himelon —" Béti turned to face him, and the ellon noticed that his eyes had lost the dullness which had by now become habitual. "I will never reach my homeland."

"How would you know?"

"I have known for a while. I do not know how or why it is so, but it is." The man pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning for his next sentence. Himelon sensed he had much to say, but not the words in _edhellen_ to say it. "I woke up with — with Thonel in a place with firs and steep slopes. Before, I was in a —" He sighed almost vexedly and pinched his nose again.

"What do you wish to say?"

"A — a time with blood, and noise, and pain — cuts — no, worse than cuts — everything destroyed —"

"War."

"I was in a war. Thonel, he gave me the orders. I gave orders too, but he gave me orders which I gave to the men. Do you see? He was cut in the thigh by a —"

"— a knife? —"

"No, no, no — something else. You do not have it here. _Búlet_. Small things, but they hurt you badly. Thonel had _búlet_ in his leg. I had to carry him."

Himelon could not make sense of Béti's talking, and turned back to his laundry. The only items left to wash were the hose, soiled by mud and sweat. Scrubbing hard and ignoring the smell, he waited for his companion's babble to wash over his ears.

"Himelon — do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Thonel was hurt. He was so stubborn — he would only carry on. I helped him walk. An enemy threw a weapon at us. We ought to have avoided it, but we were too slow. The weapon hit us, and we woke up with the fir trees. I looked for the place where the war was, but I couldn't find it. Somehow, it is not anymore."

"That is very strange." This recent turn of events piqued Himelon's interest, and the violence of his scrubbing decreased.

"Then we were in Imladris, and Elrond called us. We spoke to Elrond. He told us that we were not from Arda. And if Elrond knows as much as you say he does, then he is right. That means my homeland is not from Arda."

"How can that be? All the free peoples live in Arda. We know not of any other lands."

"I asked the same of myself. But I am not well-taught after the measure of my people. I had no answer. Of course, I hoped that Elrond was wrong. I tried to send something to my family, but the couriers had not heard of my homeland."

"There is yet an answer," protested Himelon. "We do not concern ourselves with the lands outside of Ennor and the Blessed Realm. It was the Dúnedain — when they were a glorious people — who sailed and explored. Naturally, very few in Imladris know of their explorations — but if we were to travel to the South —"

"I have given up what hope I had. Thonel had the most of it, and now —" He sighed. "There is no real reason to travel on. The best of my hopes have been thwarted already, and if I should be disappointed one more time…"

"My father would say that to give up hope would be to die before death."

Béti gave an unhappy bark of laughter. "Forgive me, but part of myself died when I left my family, and another part when Thonel left us. Total death would not be unwelcome."

"Come now, do not be so cynical!" This macabre turn of the conversation left the ellon cold and sick, and he wanted nothing more than to weep for the world and its cruel devices. Taking his saturated hose out of the water, he wrung them to relieve the fear.

"I do not want to go on. When we are rested, we return to Imladris." Béti thumped his damp shirt on his knee with an air of finality.

"Why do you lose your faith so?" Himelon came upon an excuse which he, when recalling this moment, would decry as base and selfish. "I have seen but little of the world — think of me! I would give much to travel as my father did."

Béti blinked, as though momentarily stupefied by Himelon's response. They carried their washing from the shore to where they had made their camp, but Himelon did not want to relinquish this conversation. Lying indolently with his legs over his pack, Béti squatting with his chin in his hands, they continued. "Think of it, Béti," he said. "Travelling long enough, we could see the South: Minas Tirith — Ithilien — Anfalas —"

"I have no interest in seeing those places."

"Do you not?"

"Not all regard the world with wide-eyed wonder as you do. And have there not been rumours of war?"

Himelon's stomach sank. "Yes," he whispered. Defeated. "I believe my father spoke of a mustering of the remains of the Dúnedain. In the South."

"Why would I return to war, when — _pravedens_ took me away?"

There was silence. Himelon did not know what a _pravedens_ was, and did not ask. Béti had not yet taught him that _Íngles_ word. He did not even know why he wanted to continue the travels: he had come only upon a whim, to accompany two men who knew nothing of Ennor. But there was something alluring about lands he had never seen. And if he found a way to return Béti to his home, which he had for so long accepted as lost, forever? Secretly, in the recesses of his heart, Himelon longed for some sort of renown; having lived in a valley where ageless Elf-warriors recounted magnificently tragic battles and many others had known figures of legend as friends, he felt ridiculously commonplace and undeserving of the heavy heirlooms of his race.

Perhaps, by finding Béti's home, he would cease to feel so unworthy.

"Do you not feel how much you have lost?"

Béti stiffened. "Why do you persist in trying to persuade me. I do not wish to go on."

"Is there no hope, then? Nothing?"

"I have told you — my home _does not exist_. I have tried to tell — tell Thonel this for a long while. It was he, and not I, that wanted to go. I cannot go home. Do not tempt me with such a stupid thing as _hope_."

Himelon's heart jumped with conflicting concern and anger: Béti had said trust-hope. Perhaps it was an accident — a blindness to linguistic intricacy — yet it made the ellon uncomfortable. Béti was not like this. Something had changed him.

Meanwhile, the man had regressed back into silence, and eventually left to forage. He had no knowledge of what was edible and what was not, and it was an excuse for solitude. Himelon got up himself, stretching his neck, stiff from its unnatural propping against his pack. The afternoon had passed quickly, and the sun was disappearing quickly behind the hills, sending out its last rays and turning the still surface of Nenuial various shades of pink and orange. The ellon was feeling restive: he pulled on his shirt — still damp in areas, but wearable — and began to jog across the shore; they had not stayed put so long in weeks. Once his breaths came hard, he halted and inspected the horses. They had been standing placidly, partaking of the scrubbed grass of the moor. Once he was satisfied that the beasts were in good working order, Himelon sat down again.

Eventually, Béti returned with a handful of leaves, which, when crushed, gave a wholesomely bitter aroma that did not seem to suggest poison. Himelon sampled one and spat it out. It tasted like one of the tinctures Master Elrond kept for mortals afflicted with illness — not that he'd tried any. The man looked mildly puzzled, before throwing the leaves over his shoulder and turning to stare at the lake and the hills beyond. He seemed very weary.

There was nothing that could build an acceptable fire nearby, so the evening meal was cold. Himelon did not gripe: the woman at the village had given them robust fare. Munching gloomily on a strip of dried meat, he watched Béti as he took two absent-minded bites from his waybread, before placing it on the ground. Surreptitiously, the ellon took the rejected object and stowed it in his pack. He knew Béti's habits as of late. The man would eat no more.

Indeed, as he had come to think of it, sitting watch under a star-speckled sky, Béti's bare chest had looked a little emaciated during their bath. The ribs had begun to protrude. The man's cheeks seemed hollow, though his absent, numb countenance might have fooled Himelon into thinking so. _Perhaps_ , he mused, _it would be best to return to Imladris after all_.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Some of you may be familiar with the fact that Sindarin has two words for hope: _amdir_ , or hope based on reason, and _estel_ , hope that is based on trust and less easy to lose. Hence Himelon's adverse reaction to Davies' cynicism.

I don't think I've ever written an entire chapter in Elf-POV. This was interesting. Thanks for reading, and don't hesitate to review (as always)!

 **A.B.C.**


End file.
